


To be borne back ceaselessly

by Angelicasdean



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Amputation, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Has Low Self-Esteem, Arthur Whump, Blood and Injury, Coping, Emotional Roller Coaster, Eventual Happy Ending, Father-Son Relationship, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Major Character Injury, Permanent Injury, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-01-11 09:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18427871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicasdean/pseuds/Angelicasdean
Summary: To be free is to be able to move, and Arthur can't even manage that now. Like a useless pile of flesh and bones, can't fight, can't run, can't walk and can't even hunt. Dutch should kick him out, really should, whatever fondness he holds for him is going to eventually wear the gang down, a fallen comrade, better to be remembered as a fighter than a crippled man wasting away in his own misery.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea came to me when I was watching a war documentary and it had a segment about veterans coping with their injuries. This is angst up until the end. Basically a story of redemption while also a little bit of a fix it (by that I mean no background characters die)

Things fall out of perspective really quickly when you're wounded. It's something Arthur had realized around the first time he got shot, something Dutch and Hosea had assured him was just his body's way of coping with being attacked. It was something he came to find handy most times, being able to pinpoint his wound yet being unable to feel the pain of it, in a gunfight, it let's you know what you can do, in the aftermath, it helps you do what you need to do without passing out.

But sometimes, the system backfires, sometimes being so painless, pumped on adrenaline and instincts can be lethal and now, as Arthur lays breathless in the swamps, he can't help but feel this is one of those times.

• * *

  
It'd been a long week, all of it, from the Valentine mess with Cornwall, to being the Gray's errand boy and having to hold back his wits against that rotting Braithwaite woman, not to mention Dutch being a fool, Hosea's degrading health, and so, so many more things.

He'd been tiring himself out, running around hunting down Gensing and Currant and other herbs to help Hosea, facing the raiders every goddamn time he steps out of camp, chasing away animals in the middle of the night because they'd been fast and brave enough to slip through whoever's taking guard, he'd been tired and curt to the point where a drink was down his throat more often than water.

"you should take a break," Hosea says as Arthur sips at the bitter coffee Pearson brewed, "you look like you're going to bite our heads off or blows yours,"

"Sure," he draws, almost as bitter as the coffee, "I'll just go to our _summerhouse down in California,_ take a few days to myself," he replies bitterly, blinking at the spite that had slipped into his voice, he sighs, "shit, maybe you're right," he says, pressing the palm of his hand into his eyes, "Nothing to do here, though, Raiders won't even let me fish in peace,"

"Go hunting, I know Valentine's too risky to hunt around but I heard this city, Saint Denis, has some good reptiles around, could take a few days but I think you need it,"Hosea offers

"What about the jobs?" He asks, Hosea shakes his head.

"I'm thinking about ending our so called _business_ with that Braithwaite family, I've turned every stone and didn't find a lick of gold, most I've seen was this bracelet and I've already nicked it," he smiles and Arthur huffs in amusement, "Sean heard a bunch of drunk Gray boys talking about us, said they'd dupe us, stupid enough to not recognize that _he's_ one of us,"

"Some business we're running," Arthur tsks, "So that means we're moving again?"

"Likely so," Hosea says, nodding to himself, "Isn't safe here anymore, as much as I like the thick air and mistrable town,"

"Preach it," Arthur chuckles, "You're selling this hunting trip pretty well, Old man,"

"It's a talent, my dear boy," Hosea smiles, "Go on, take a few days to yourself, kill some beasts and bring back pelts for Pearson to craft into some questionable decorations," he encourages.

And so Arthur went.

His plan was to be away for a week at best, hunt some alligators and come back relaxed and ready to be company again.

The ride itself was freeing enough, he'd ended up near Lakay and if he thought the air was thick back at camp well, Lakay was ten times over. A swamp village at best, not a dry road in sight and Pegasus, his horse, had snorted his own distaste at the environment, stomping and throwing his head as Arthur brushed him down.

Arthur had gone around, asked the village folk about the hunting spots, learned that there's a legend haunting the area about a supposed beast lurking in the largest swamp at the edge of the village. Arthur was tempted to find out if it's true, but decided against it when he met a self proclaimed survivor with half his face missing.

Lakay had been a bust, but Arthur did not dwindle on it, continuing his journey up to Grizzlies east, setting up a camp to stay the night and catching a rabbit to eat. He'd missed the days where he can stay out of camp for nearly a month without having people chase him down, without the camp being worried sick and Dutch ripping him a new one about being careless and driving them all to the brink of worry. Even before the Blackwater mess, around the time Charles had joined, he couldn't leave the camp without telling at least two people where he'd gone, bounty hunters having begun to tail them as the Pinkertons sniffed them out. It'd been suffocating at times, but he gets the reason.

He wakes early and continues on his path, finding the air steadily getting fresher and more breathable as he wonders through the greenary. Grizzlies east is filled with bears from his knowledge, black bears and many many deer and other herbivores animals. With fresh flowers to guide him, he begins his actual reason of coming. He hunts.

It takes a better chunk of the day, tracking and examining animals, drawing them when he deems them too thin or young to be useful. It's a relaxing routine, see a track and follow it, the stretch of the bow under his fingers and the snap of the arrow in his ear, all familiar and warm. He brings down two deer, one he plans on cooking for dinner and the other for Pearson to use. Calling the trip successful, he mounts up on Pegasus and starting his treck back.

Night time washes over him, and with it comes trouble.

The day having slowed him down, made him too relaxed and feeling falsely safe, he'd missed the first signs. The constant crack of twigs, the tingling feeling of being watched, how the deer had run away from between the trees, all should have been a giveaway, someone was near, someone didn't want him to know they were.

Pegasus neighs, loud and warningly as the footsteps become louder and clear to Arthur's ears. Quick to his feet, Arthur faces a group of angry looking men, all with guns pointed at him. He swear internally as he raises his hands in surrender. "I don't want no trouble," he says calmly, "I was just passing through,"

"Drop the act, Morgan, I-We know who you are," One of them says, short with a sizable scar across his cheek, "You killed my brother,"

"I'm sure there's a misunderstanding," Arthur says, taking a few steps back.

"Bullshit, I saw you, can never forget your face, Morgan, you and that devil you call a leader," he spits, hands raising his rifle threateningly, "Me and my boys were just running some errands for Colm, we stumbled on you and well...I'm not religious but I do believe that's a sign," he continues, Arthur tunes him out, eyes focusing at the targets at hand, there's six of them in total, all watching him. One wrong move and he'd end up bullet ridden and eaten by whatever animal passes by. He tries to think of ways out, bargening with a man set for revenge is out, can't fool them into leaving him anymore, doesn't have anything to hide behind except trees and the closest one is a sprint away. He'd backed himself into a corner.

The man had stopped speaking, silence now stretching as Arthur's eyes bounce from one man to the other. "I'll see you in hell, Arthur Morgan," the man breaks the silence, Arthur having enough instinct to duck at the bullet flies above him. He runs towards the nearest tree, flinching as bullets break the bark. He takes out his pistol, checking its ammo before turning to shoot blindly. Risking a glance, he can see three men hiding behind the trees parallel to him, the other three he can't place and he checks his right and left before changing to hide behind a thicker tree.

The bullets follow him, one forcing a yelp from him as it catches on his calf, making him stagger and grit his teeth; determined not to let himself die from a stupid mistake. He leans on the tree's bark, shooting one the men as the run out from behind their cover.

With an outraged cry of "You son of a bitch!" Arthur gets tackled to the ground, falling helplessly as the O'driscoll above him slams his fists against Arthur's face, each hit getting increasingly more aggressive. With a grunt, Arthur takes out his secondary firearm, placing it under the man's chin in a swift move and pulling the trigger. He pushes himself to sit, shooting another O'driscoll who'd run towards him. The last two running off into the woods with promises of returning.

Tired and tense, Arthur sets to work quickly and packs his tent, turning at every sound around him. Calming Pegasus with a few treats and pats, Arthur mounts, his leg burning slightly, but Arthur ignores it, there'll be time for that later, when he's not at risk of getting bushwacked again.

He sets off, heading towards camp through the long way round, down to Lakay and Saint Denis.


	2. Chapter 2

The pain settles just as dawn peaks, fire burning through his leg as he enters Lakay. Pegasus is exhausted, sweat covering his coat and Arthur decides he's far enough to be able to patch himself up.

One glance at his leg tells him that he had undermined the wound, blood soaking through his light blue pants and wetting the side of Pegasus' saddle. He worries his lip for a second before he slows to a stop on the outskirts of Lakay. He slides down, leg giving out as he hits the ground and he lands face first into the musty smelling mud. With a curse and a grumpy swipe to his face, Arthur leans heavily against Pegasus and unzips his saddle bag. If he's lucky, the bullet would have gotten out right away, he can't exactly know if it's in or not, entire leg starting to numb as the mud he so recently dove in slides sluggishly against the wound. If he's quick enough he can prevent an infection before it's too late, before he catches a fever and loses his bearings.

Pegasus whines as Arthur rummaged through the saddlebag, spotting his medicine kit and tugging it from in between the cans of food and ammo boxes. With a final tug and a swear, Arthur wobbles to the trees and slides to the ground. The rush of a fight is long gone, leaving the aches and pains of the exercise to sear through his muscles. His leg spasms as Arthur wipes the dirty mud away, wincing as the wound burns bright under the pressure. He can't see an exit wound, but from what he sees and feels it hadn't hit bone. Good enough, he thinks. He was never lucky with wounds, alway getting hit the hardest or shot the worst, he'd acquired the ability to heal quickly from it though, his body seems to bounce back from almost anything.

With a disappointed frown, he sets his shoulders and takes out his hunting knife. Hosea had always taught them to take out a bullet, lead may cause blood toxicity or something along those lines, whatever the situation, when you're safe you take out the bullet and clean the wound.

He blows a breath through his nose, digging out his bandana from his satchel and pressing it between his lips and breathing in deep as he pushes the knife into the wound. He squint against the pain, biting down a scream as he tries to pry the bullet out. He takes large lungfuls from behind the bandana, pausing when the pain gets too much.

He should've drank something.

Too late for that now, he flexes his hand around the knife, shaking his head as he tries to focus again and forget the blinding pain burning up his leg.

He tries again, letting out a high pitched groan as the bullet falls out with a muffled splatter. He leans back heavily against the tree, closing his eyes as he catches his breath.

It's not the first time he'd taken out a bullet, not the first he'd had to grit his teeth but it's still unpleasant as always. Pegasus' snort brings him back to the situation at hand, his leg is bleeding, if not more heavily and Arthur weakly grabs the bandages and wraps it tightly against his calf. He doesn't think he has enough energy to continue, sleep tugging heavily against his eyelids but he can't stay.

He huffs as he tugs at the bandane, stuffing it into his pocket as he pulls himself to his feet. He whistles for Pegasus to get closer, holding tightly against the saddle horn as he pushes his foot into the stirrup and heaves himself heavily, "Come on, boy," he groans tiredly, spurring him on with one foot and Pegasus

Making their way out of Lakay, Arthur gives in to the pull of darkness, slumping against Pegasus' saddle and trusting him to lead him back safely.

• * *

Voice call for him, pulling at the threads of consciousness and rousing him. "Sir, sir?" someone says, soft and worried. Arthur forces his eyes to open, the knowledge of a stranger so close making him ansty.

"Sir, are you okay?" the man asks, Arthur would scoff if he wasn't so tired, eyes already slinking down, "Sir, hang in there, we're almost here,"

Almost where, Arthur wants to ask but can't as darkness pulls him tight and sinks him into unconsciousness.

• * *

The man calls him again, voice barely recognizable in the void of Arthur's mind. He can feel his limbs move, hands on his shoulder and someone dargging his feet. Some part of him panics, wanting to pull away and defend himself but he simply can not. He hopes whoever this man is does not have ill intention, trusting him blindly and letting him tug his limp body down from Pegasus.

Once his feet hit the ground, Arthur arches away with a pained groan, leg giving out and leaning heavily against the man who apologizes and staggers under the weight of Arthur.

Another pair of hands grab him, pulling Arthur's arm over his shoulder and drags him forward. Arthur tries to open his eyes, managing to get a sliver of light before pain surrounds his head and he gives up.

 


	3. Chapter 3

He discovers that he's at the doctors office, the doctor himself urging Arthur to stay awake while he pokes around Arthur's leg. A few of the prodes send needling pain through his body and with a disappointed sigh the doctor faces him solemnly.

"I think it's past saving at this point, Mister..." he trails off and Arthur blinks heavily against the implications, takes him a moment to realize the doctor is waiting on a name.

"Callahan," he supplies, having enough of a mind to use a borrowed name. The doctor nods, "Wha-what do you mean past saving?"

"I'm sorry, Mister but I fear that you caught an infection in your leg, I need to check your vitals but it's not looking so good for your leg and... Well, if you want to survive this we might need to remove it," the doctor explains, pressing the back of his hand against Arthur's forehead, Arthur shivering under the cool touch.

"Remove it?" he asks dully, failing to piece together the information.

"Yes, sir," the doctor affirms, "An amputation will save your life, possibly the rest of your leg too, the discoloration has only reached halfway up you calf but if we leave it much longer..."

"Amputation," Arthur repeats, feeling his face heat even more at the realization " _No_ ," he breathes out, "You can't, _you can't_!" he argues, trying to push himself to his feet. The doctor places a firm hand on his shoulder, pushing him back.

"Now, Mister Callahan," the doctor soothes, "It's a scary prospect, I know, but it'll save your life,"

"No, I can't lose my leg, I _can't_ ," he shakes his head deliriously, mind spiraling as the doctor calls for a nurse, "I can't... _I can't_ , my - my work, my _family_ , they-they'll-" he blabbers, breath coming in short gasps.

"Calm down, Mister," The doctor soothes, "It's either your leg or your life, I'm sure your family would be glad for your survival,"

"You don't understand -" Arthur tries helplessly, the doctor sighs.

"I can't force you, Mister, but in my professional opinion, your life is more valuable than your leg, we have a prosthetic line we can offer," he says as the nurse places something cold against his forehead, "if you still don't want this, well I can't offer much except pain killers,"

Arthur stares for a moment, his life in exchange for a leg or his leg in exchange for his life. Some part of him, a large part, tells him he'll be useless if he can't walk, no use for his family. What will he do with one leg, will just be a burden they have to carry, maybe another Uncle or Swanson, only twice as sad and pitiful.

The other part, small but strong, tells him that he can figure it out, if he dies he should at least have tried. If he tried then he can go to the devil carefree, with the peace of mind that he died a fighter rather than a sad mess of a man afraid of abandonment. He realizes that he's scared, embraces it, figures if he's about to lose a leg or his life he can excuse himself.

He wishes that someone would take the decision for him, Hosea or Dutch to be here and tell him maybe there's another way, maybe the doctor is lying or maybe he's missing something. He wishes someone is beside him, Hosea maybe, he's always better at calming people down, even John would do, with his awkward humor and weird way of being reassuring.

He has to make the decision alone, though. He guesses he's grown enough to be able to, but no one is grown enough to come to terms with losing a limb. No matter how tough Arthur thinks he is, he can't make amends with it, in his little self depreciating heart, he wants to live but doesn't want to be crippled, wonders if he'll end up like the veteran in Rhodes, at least he lost his heroically not against some assholes with a revenge plan.

The doctor waits patiently, the nurse calming down the fever Arthur didn't know he had and cleaning the mud from his face and hands. Arthur has to decide, now, at this second, while he's shaking, aching and halfway delirious.

"Your decision, Mister Callahan," the doctor says calmly, and Arthur's gaze falls to the ground.

"Will I be awake... During... During the amputation?" he asks nervously, he needs to make amends with it, needs to get used to it and the doctor sighs above him.

"No, you'll be sound asleep, won't feel anything, probably," he assures and Arthur nods, "Do you have money, Mister Callahan?" Arthur nods again, "The cost of the surgery isn't much, considering it's your life we're saving,"

"Whatever, Doc," Arthur grumbles, "How much," he asks, sluggishly pulling his satchel to his lap and taking out a wad of cash.

"The amputation and care will be a two hundred... Prosthetics another hundred," he replies and Arthur nods curtly, extending his hand unsteadily and the doctor grabs it gently, three hundred lost to cut off a limb. Could just do it himself and save the trouble, "Martha, please sedate him, tell Robert to prepare the operating room,"

"Yes, sir," she nods, taking away the cloth on Arthur's head and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, "this'll be painless, now," she says, turning for a moment before returning with a syringe, "close your eyes and when you wake up, everything will be okay again,"

Arthur struggles for a moment against his own mind, fear clouding his senses as he sinks into the darkness of the anesthetic. Wonders if they'll accept him back at camp, fades away into the cold hands of sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Waking up again was surprisingly emotionally lacking. Arthur would have guessed he'd feel afraid or pained, but no, when he had finally opened his eyes again and took in the ceiling of the Office, he'd just looked around curiously.

He doesn't know what he expected to see, blood maybe, maybe that he'd be in hell or that this had all been a horrible, horrible nightmare. He flexed his foot, feeling a twine of pain below his knee and sighs.

He can't bring himself to look, can't shake away the coil of panic in his chest. Will he be able to ride a horse? Will he manage to get back to camp? How long has it been since he left, he knows the trip itself had taken around four days, on the fourth having the shootout. But he hadn't been exactly in a good mindspace to be able to pinpoint time and it's passing. How long had it been since the surgery? A day, maybe? Two?

If he's gone long enough, will someone find him?

_Does he want someone to find him?_

He doesn't know. Doesn't think he has enough emotional power to be thinking about possibilities of abandonment. He already feels ready to whether, regretting ever agreeing, ever going on that hunting trip. A so called vacation to clear his mind leaves him in a bed that is not his, crippled and scared.

A knock on the wall pulls him to the situation, the nurse from before smiles at him as she walks deeper into the room, "Hello, sir," she greets, putting down the tray she'd been holding. She moves out of Arthur's vision, coming back with a cloth and placing it on his forehead, "Feeling okay?"

"Sure," he whispers, throat dry, he's just dandy, will skip around a field when he gets out. He doesn't say any of it, having enough of a mind to know it isn't her fault. Isn't the doctors, isn't Hosea's or anyone except himself. Himself and that _goddamn O'driscoll._

"I know it's hard, losing a limb, my sister had to get her arm amputated from gangrene a few years back," She explains, taking the cloth of and dunking it in the bowl perched on the tray, "She was lost for a while, thought she couldn't be an artist no more," she sighs, but then smiles gently, "her husband, bless his soul, had encouraged her to learn writing and drawing with her left, took some months but she managed it, happier now, at least I think, smiles more, doesn't drink half as much,"

"Wish her luck," Arthur replies, eyes falling on the ceiling again. Can he do that, can he over come this? Losing a hand... Maybe he would have preferred that, he can shoot with both hands, can write and draw with his right, granted, but a right leg for a right arm... He doesn't know. Doesn't think he would like to know.

"You can consider yourself lucky, between the other men who'd lost their legs at least," She says simply, her head bouncing slightly as she presses the cloth against his neck making him shiver for a moment, "Your amputation was smooth, doctor saved as much as could, you only lost quarter of your leg!"

"Great," he replies, quarter of his leg. She says it like it's a pound of beef, could be bought again, "I can't feel anything,"

"Oh, yeah, that's normal," She assures, "It'll wear off in a few hours, we'll keep you on pain killers though, for a few weeks at least,"

"When can I leave?" he asks, shifting to push himself into a sitting position, freezing when his eyes fall on the shape of his legs under the blanket. He stares for a moment, struck by the shape of one full leg, and one that falls round under the knee.

"Settle down, Mister," The nurse soothes, Arthur paying her no attention as she pushes him back down. For some ungodly reason, he'd never accounted for seeing his leg actually missing. All he could think about was the after math, the inabilities and never once had he thought about the visual, "It can take a few days, weeks even, depends on how much you're willing to pay and how bad your condition is,"

"Have I been out long?" he asks, feeling the cold dread seeping out of him ever so slowly. He probably will never get used to seeing himself like this, but for now he'll ignore it, he's good at that.

"Around a day, which is totally normal," She answers and Arthur sighs, closing his eyes in hopelessness, "Like I said before, Mister, it all looks and sounds real bad until you look at the alternatives. And you already bought a prosthetic, once we fit you one, you'll be walking again,"

"Will I able to run?"

"Maybe, if you've got enough stability, I wouldn't count on it," she says sadly, "You'll walk for sure, with a slight limb, maybe, but nothing more,"

"Okay," He replies curtly, closing his eyes again, ready for this conversation, this day, to end.

"I'll leave you to rest," She says as her footsteps back away, Arthur doesn't respond, taking in a lungful of air when her footsteps fade completely. His chest is tight with sadness, regret perhaps. Flexes his left leg, curling his toes and bending his knee. At least he still has that, can still feel halfway human. He bends his left knee, wincing as pain shoots up, despite the pain killers, ever fading they are. He tries to flex his toes, knowing it's useless and sighing when he only feels another throb of pain.

• * *

Arthur had manged to sit up without looking at his legs, granted it took him a day to come to terms with the fact that he's bedridden, the nurse, that is still remains unnamed, had given him painkillers when he had awoken with the burning pain of surgery. They'd fed him, made sure he drinks enough water and had introduced him to his new leg, a wood and leather prosthetic, supposedly should wrap and tie the leather flap to his thigh and fit his leg, what's left of it, in the hollow of the actual wooden leg. Sounds simple enough, good enough for him to ease slightly.

The prosthetic won't allow him to run, he already know that, he'd always run on the soles of his feet, gives him an extra bounce and makes him quicker and quieter. The leg he's offered is wooden in nature, therefore unflexable therefore Arthur can say his hopes had been crushed.

He doesn't speak much, with the nurse nor the doctor, they give him instructions, force him to look at his leg while getting the wrappings changed so he'd know how to take care of it, how to make sure it heals properly.

"Refrain from using the prosthetic for at least another week, Mister Callahan," The doctor had insisted, it had already been a three days since the surgery and Arthur had grappled himself to the reassurance of being able to walk, even if it's with a limp. Arthur had begrudgingly agreed, accepted that he'd have to manage a few days before he's mobile again.

On the fourth day, Arthur leaves.

The doctor had tried his best to teach Arthur to wrap the bandages well, Arthur already knows the process by heart, but listens anyway for the third time in his stay. When he changes one by himself good enough for the doctor, he's allowed an early leave.

The nurse helps him outside, handing him a crutch that had been donated and lead him to where his horse has been stabled and taken care off. It's a long walk, one filled with pitying looks from the public and angry glares from Arthur.

When they'd finally reached the stable, Pegasus snorts and shakes his head as he sees Arthur. Relieved that the horse is okay, Arthur pets it gently as he pays the stable owner and takes the prosthetic from the nurse, hooking it on the saddle and tucking the crutch beside his rifles. He mounts up, unstable for a moment as he thoughtlessly tries to hook his right leg to the stirrups, only to be disappointed at the realization.

"Good luck now, Mister Callahan," The nurse farewells as Arthur spurs Pegasus lightly to start trotting, "Come by anytime if you have concerns,"

"Thank you," He says politely, the nurse waves as Arthur makes his way out of the stables. He can balance well on the saddle, a change he'll still have to get used to but he can manage. With a shake of his head and roll of his shoulders, Arthur sets off towards camp, a coil of fear wrapping his chest.

He doesn't know whether he wants to ride fast, get the confrontation over with, know whether he's allowed back or not. Or whether he wants to ride slow, put back the talk he's sure he'll have to go through, the explanation and the fact that he'll face the reality of his situation.

He'll no longer be the enforcer, no longer their lead gunslinger. Nothing. He'll just be a good shot with no application, except if the enemy can wait for Arthur to limp his way to them.

His chest tightens too tight, the fear making him choke on his own breath and he slows Pegasus. He leans on the saddle, closing his eyes and forcing back the tears welling up in his eyes. He should have let himself die, what's the use of being so incapable. He can't do anything to help camp, and the general rule is that you should pull your own weight. He can't even do that now.

So many years of being prideful about himself, building up his position in the gang. Gone. And all from a _fucking O'driscoll_. He let's out an angry growl-like sound, taking in another lungful of air as he straightens again.

If anything, he'll face this like a man. The prospect of being left or deposed hurts him, makes his heart thrum awkwardly against his chest but he'll face this, and face it as a man. Pegasus snorts and Arthur gives him a pat, spurring him and continuing the journey.

 


	5. Chapter 5

It takes him the better part of day to make it back, the sun had started to descend, leaving the sky a rich orange. The camp is mostly bustling when he arrives, Arthur can hear the voice of Abigail chasing Jack, Uncle and Bill fighting over something and the general noise of life. He doesn't know whether it brings him relief or coils his fear harder. He can feel himself begin to sweat as he tries to form an excuse. What will he say? Is it too late to turn back? 

 

"Who's there?"

 

Yup, too late.

 

"It's Arthur," he answers, Javier brightens, letting his rifle sling on his back as Arthur trots closer.

 

"Arthur!" He shouts, looking excited for no good reason, "Everyone, Arthur's back!" he announces, now they're close enough for everyone to see him. His face burns hot, Hosea making his way towards him. He doesn't know what to do, feels too confused and scared to speak or move.

 

He decides that actions show better than any of his words would, and so he unmount. Holding tightly onto Pegasus as he sways. The camp falls silent, Arthur had tied off his pant leg, didn't like how it hung limp under his stump.

 

Silently, with sweat covering his neck, he pulls out his crutch and tucks it under his arm, leaning against it instead of Pegasus. With a sigh, he turns towards the group of people in front of him. Hosea the closest. All sharing a smiliar expression of shock or horror. He straightens himself, wants to say something, anything, but he can't, his jaw his clenched tight to hold back his scared shivers.

 

He doesn't look anyone in the eyes, what can he do, he'd expected scoffs, maybe retorts or anger at being so careless. Not this. Not silence. It's worse, he'd take anger over sympathy, he can at least explain it. He can make amends with them not wanting him, not really, but he can tell himself he can. But no one is telling him to go, they're all just staring. Silent.

 

He always hated silence.

 

This one is the worst of them all, the type of silence that makes your chest feel too full yet has a hole in the middle of it. Someone needs to speak. He needs to say something. Anyone should say something.

 

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, voice wavering.

 

He didn't mean to say that. Shouldn't have said that, now all the eyes are on him instead of his leg. Or lack there of. Shit, he's in the spotlight now. He doesn't have anything to say. Nothing worthy. Nothing that feels enough. "It-it was either that or-or my life and I-" his jaw works uselessly. What, he what? He chose his life. But is he really going to live? Like this? He's just dead weight now.

 

"Arthur-" Hosea says, voice tight with concern. He too is lost for words, which doesn't make Arthur feel better. Arthur sways, not because of his injury.

 

"I didn't know what to do," he admits, face feeling even hotter, burning with shame. He's grown, he shouldn't be this scared, this confused and sad. He can't go back now, anyway, can't do anything except face that he's fucked up and move forward.

 

"Oh, Arthur," Hosea moves forward slowly, unsure, of what, Arthur cannot decide. Arthur shifts, stabilizing himself against the crunch as Hosea stands close to him.

 

"I'm lost, I don't know what to do, Hosea," Arthur whispers, "I-I fucked up,"

 

"We'll figure it out," Hosea says after a beat of silence, opening his arms as an invitation and Arthur sinks into it gladly. Hosea holds him tight, squeezing Arthur like it could fix all his problems and at that second, it feels like it could.

 

He's not thrown away.

 

Just yet, at least.

 

But he can deal with that, can find something to work with to make him stay. He can feel himself shiver with the relief of acceptance, breath hitching as Hosea cards a hand through his hair. He's lost, all right, but he'll find a way. They always do. It just needs time, patience and determination, like Dutch always said.

 

He's not too proud to admit it, but Arthur cries. The weight he'd been carrying falling away, he still lost his leg. He still is useless. But Hosea is here, in this moment, to hold him, to tell him he'll be alright, that they'll figure it out and it makes him fall slack in his arms. He'd never thought of himself as a crier, he didn't cry for his dad, didn't cry for his dead friend. But he cries now, cries for himself, he can regret it later, but for now, he listens to Hosea sooth him.

 

• * *

 

It takes a few, but the camp goes back to work. Arthur can hear it from his tent, Pearson calling Dinner ready, Grimshaw giving a lecture to Tilly, Jack driving his mother crazy. But he sits in his tent, silent, Hosea beside him. They don't know what to say, what to do. Arthur had explained what happened, told him all he remembers. 

 

Which leaves nothing for them to talk about. They can't just go about and have a regular conversation, it doesn't sit well with Arthur, as much as he would love to act like everything is normal. "At least I'll be able to walk," Arthur says quietly, Hosea nods, tracing a finger over the prosthetic that lays on his lap now, "I would say it cost me an arm and a leg but, I still have my arm and all," Arthur jokes weakly, a stupid attempt, but it had sprung to mind and he usually says what he thinks. Plus, joking always seems to help his mood, whether about and injury or a failed job. 

 

"Jesus, Arthur," Hosea says, still a chuckle beats out of him, "Leave it up to you to make me feel bad about laughing," he adds quietly, not looking up from the wooden leg, "I'm sorry, son," 

 

"Don't need to be," Arthur dismisses, "Unless you set those O'driscolls on me, I can't see how it's your fault," 

 

"I don't know... I just... I don't know," Hosea sighs, "This feels too unreal, I-I could never imagine..." 

 

"I know, me neither but from what I've learned, life doesn't usually go as you expect," Arthur says wisely, "All I'm worried about now is what the hell am I going to do,"

 

"With what?" Hosea asks and Arthur squints at him.

 

"Can't exactly fight, Hosea, can't run neither, gotta find something to keep me from being next in line for the Uncle position," He explains, Hosea frowns deeply, Arthur recognizes the frown, the one he puts on when someone in the gang says something stupid, "hey, don't look at me like that, now," Arthur grumbles and Hosea shakes his head.

 

"You rest up first, then we'll see how well you'll be with the leg and then you can be worried about stupid crap," Hosea says firmly, "Even if you can't use the leg well, we'll figure something out,"

 

"As long as I'm not kicked out or completely useless, I'm good," Arthur sighs, a half truth that makes his skin itch. Dutch isn't in camp, he and Micah off somewhere or other, when they come back, who knows what will happen. As much as Arthur would like to have confidence in Dutch accepting him, these past few months he seemed to have changed, made him more intolerant and always ranting about needing more gunmen. He just lost one.

 

"No one's kicking you out," Hosea is quick to reply, Arthur cracks a small smile as Hosea continues, "You're hurt, you'll get better and we'll find something or other that fits you, even if it's goddamn fishing,"

 

"And if we don't?" Arthur asks and Hosea purses his lips, looking thoughtful for a moment.

 

"Then we don't, doesn't mean we'll kick you out," He points out like it's a given. Arthur so desperately wants to believe it, that he'll be accepted even with being so useless. He knows he calls this a family, would protect them as such but in the end, it's a gang, in the end it's a group out to survive and live, they can only carry so many unworking people. They've got Swanson and Uncle, at least Swanson' helpful with patching up injuries, Uncle can be useful when he wants, as much as Arthur doesn't want to admit, the man is actually wise and holds a lot of knowledge. But what is he. He has nothing to offer, can't bargain, doesn't strike people as friendly so that rules out getting information, can't cook, not anything tasteful anyway, all he can do, or well, used to be able to do, was the heavy stuff, lifting, killing, thieving, the nasty stuff.

 

"Sure, Hosea," Arthur says instead, Hosea is only trying to help, can only do so much, collectively, all they can do is wait. Wait on Dutch, wait to see how Arthur will handle himself with the prosthetic, just wait. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really like how this came together, but I'm stressing over my IGCSE's and this is what I can manage. I'm trying to updtmate everything before I take the next few weeks off since I'll be examining. But anyway, thanks a lot for reading and sticking around.

Arthur stayed in his tent, feeling embarrassed and shamed, he couldn't face the fact that camp now knew, everyone knows and everyone will pity him. _Is_ pitying him.

Pity isn't something Arthur knows how to handle, sympathy, maybe, but Pity is disgusting, pity means you're weak and unsolvable. He'd seen the looks the citizens of Saint Denis gave him while the nurse escorted him to the stable, saw how the patients waiting to be diagnosed looked at him. It made him feel small, small and broken and many other undesirable feelings, it doesn't help knowing it won't get better.

He works himself, changes the bandages and changes clothes, distastefully tying the pant leg in a knot. With a sigh, he heaves himself, balancing on the table and grabbing the crutch. With an annoyed huff, he staggers, jumping a little as he takes the first step towards the tent's exit. He knows what's waiting for him out there, heard a few mutters and detached sentences, all about him, all disbelieving and pitiful. But he's hungry and frankly bored, he could stay on the dock, maybe draw the landscape again, anything but staying holed up in his tent.

It's dark when he steps out, fumbling to get his pocket watch out of his pocket, he discovers its nine pm. The camp momentarily silences and Arthur hangs his head for a second before sighing and ignoring the glances and awkward silence. He makes his way to the dock, half hopping and half dragging his feet, not used to leaning so heavily against such a frail structure. His shoulder and armpit already ache from the pressure of his own weight, he can't imagine another week of this, possibly forever.

He sits on the edge of the dock, boots brushing against the water as he stares aimlessly. His leg hurts a bit, he had ignored the painkillers since they make him too nauseous and sleepy, he doesn't want to sleep, doesn't want to know what will happen tomorrow.

A few moments of silence and aimless wondering, footsteps rock against the dock's wooden floor. Arthur turns, expecting Hosea or even Dutch, tensing when he sees John, who in turns freezes.

"I-I heard about... Can I sit... Beside you, I mean," he stammers, Arthur nods silently and John continues, planting himself beside Arthur and crossing his legs under him, "I-I don't know what to say... Arthur,"

"Don't gotta say nothing," Arthur replies softly, picking at his fingers thoughtlessly, he doesn't want to have this conversation, knows well the two directions it could go.

Him and John, they were brothers once, before John had disappointed Arthur, made him question if he ever really knew the boy, now they're estranged, a bond broken by a twisted sense of betrayal. Maybe before, Arthur would have the confidence to say that John wouldn't think of him less for losing his leg, maybe he would go the extra mile and say that John would support him. Now though, he knows the months of teasing had made the younger man hold a bit of contempt towards him. More often than not, they're at each other's throat, more often than not, Arthur finds himself trying to forgive him. He still cares, still wants the best for him, still is afraid of his judgment.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there," John says, turning slightly towards Arthur. Arthur scoffs, leave it to bastard to make himself believe it was his fault, what's with this group and being self depreciating? A small smile tugs at Arthur's mouth and he breathes heavily, rolling his shoulders to release a bit of the ache.

"I left thinking it was a vacation," Arthur replies, glancing at John's guilty face for a moment before turning back to the moon, "it's no one's fault, except mine and the asshole who shot me,"

"Yeah but..." John trails off, sighing when no argument rose to mind, "Just don't feel right, seeing you-" he gestures towards the missing leg, Arthur huffs with a smile.

"It ain't right, just...just what _had_ to be done," he says in feigned confidence. He still half-heartedly regrets it, but he knows he wants to live, knows its in his own benefit, in a twisted way.

"Well, for what it's worth, I'm happy we still got the rest of you back," John says with a coy smile, "I don't think we can handle losing you,"

"I'm as good as gone, but thank you, anyway, it-it means a lot, John," Arthur replies and John nods, ignoring the first part and placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly before pushing himself to his feet.

"I'll leave you to it, now," he says, "Holler if you want anything,"

"Sure," Arthur nods curtly, turning to the water as John walks off.

He has to admit, a little part of him... Well actually a big part of him, had been worried about John's reaction. Him, Hosea and Dutch are the closest to him, the ones that he can't bare lose, having two of them behind his back makes him calmer, makes him feel a little bit better.

He's more worried about Dutch, some part of him knew Hosea would at least be compassionate with him, wouldn't outright do something to upset him. But Dutch... Dutch values his gun power, Dutch values strength and durability, Dutch likes fighters. And he would love to say that they've grown close enough that he'd be able to overlook his disability, but he doesn't know, doesn't know anything these days it seems.

With a boggled mind, Arthur pushes himself onto his knees, using the crunch to balance on his leg enough that he'd be able to fit the crunch under his arm. He frowns, looking back towards camp. It's too quiet, even when he'd been sitting with John, it had been fairly noisy, there had been the clinking of Pearson cleaning his equipment and Uncle bickering with Grimshaw. Now though, it's _silent_. It's never this silent. Not even at night, when everyone's asleep, there's always the sound of rustling blankets, snores and sleepy mutters.

It feels like the world is holding its breath, and as Arthur spots the stark white horse in the entrance of the camp, he realizes why.

He stands frozen, eyes darting to Dutch's now lit tent. He spots Hosea standing beside it shiftily, catching Arthur's eye as they share a worried glance. Arthur shakes his head, Hosea nods in response and enters.

Arthur worries his lip silently, he watches for a moment the shadows of Dutch and Hosea talking, he can feel his heart beat uncomfortably against his chest, his body heating with fear as he slowly makes his way towards the table.

The camp had made themselves scarce, Bill and Javier sitting around the camp fire silently, Mary Beth and Tilly off sleeping, Uncle is probably drunk somewhere, John sits with Charles and Pearson wipes down his station.

Arthur sits beside Charles, instantly starting to tap his fingers against the table in worry. John passes him a sympathetic glances, smiling reassuringly but failing to hide his own fear that lurks in his eyes. They all know what's coming, the biggest confrontation of them all, Arthur can feel the eyes scorching the back of his head, the deep buzz of people gossiping and whispering to each other.

" _What_?"

Arthur freezes at the sound, it's undeniably Dutch, an angry Dutch at that, loud and accusing. Arthur closes his eyes as the sound fades, Charles bumps his hand against Arthur's, making him peel his eyes open unsurely.

"Don't worry," Charles says calmly, "We've got your back, if anything happens, all of us," He gestures towards the rest of camp, Arthur turns, catching Javier's stare and locking on.

 _Does he_ , Now?

It all sounds fun and games, easy to play supportive until it's either Arthur or Dutch. He'd seen happen before, with the Harrison Brothers, he'd seen it with his own two eyes, saw how divided it had been, either stand by Dutch's side, or stand by Harrison's. Sure, at the time, it'd been obvious to choose Dutch (who wants to go on a suicide mission "in the name of honor")

Now, Arthur knows, now it's survival time, now it's safer to be under Dutch's wing. Arthur doesn't think the support is needed, not really, it's appreciated but if Dutch tells him to leave, he'd rather not drag anyone else with him. They don't deserve that.

Arthur looks back at the lit tent, He can see the shadow of Dutch pacing, can see Hosea's shadow moving too. It's too much tension, Arthur can see the people moving, can see Charles' reassuring half-smile, John's firm face, determined and stupid as always. But his eyes fall time and time again on the shadows.

"It'll be okay, Arthur," John concols, dragging Arthur out of his trance, Arthur nods, not convinced but desperete enough.

Dutch's shadow stops, Hosea's shadow shrinks as the Hosea himself steps out, looking tired but not concerned. Arthur looks at him hopefully, if Hosea seems unbothered, then maybe Arthur is in the clear.

Or maybe Arthur will no longer be a burden.

The thought makes him blink dully. His eyes falls groundwards, he taps his finger against the table. Mind silent, too silent, an effort to keep his insecurities at bay. He can wait, he can, he waited for hours, he can wait for minutes. He's not an impatient child, not in matters like this.

"Arthur," Hosea's voice comes considerably louder than he thought was necessary, directly in his ear, "Arthur, hey, come back to us,"

"I'm here," Arthur replies, blinking again, thoughts slowly coming back. Hosea smiles reassuringly, "What did he say?"

"Didn't say much of anything, I'm afraid," Hosea informs with a sullen face, "I think it's just sinking in, I'd give him time,"... give him time... 

 _Give him time_?

Arthur can feel anger bubble up in his throat. Give him time? _For what_? He's not the one that needs time, he needs to make up his mind. He's the one holding Arthur's fate, and he's delaying telling him what will happen to him because what? He's letting it sink in? _Arthur_ didn't get time, didn't get time to think about it, to heal from it, to even accept it yet Dutch gets all the time he wants?

Arthur breathes a sigh, more of a huff but he won't admit it to anyone. Time? "sure," he replies curtly, feeling impossibly agitated at such a small thing. _Time_ , give him _time_. Who knows how long. A day, a _week_? Arthur has to sit and wait it out, he'd been stressing himself for hours, _days_ even, just to get told to wait some more. "fine," Arthur follows up, pushing himself to his foot, shoving the crunch under his arm aggressively. It pulls on his already aching shoulder, but it seems minimal with the anger seething through Arthur's veins. Unforseen and burning, Arthur knows it's useless being this angry, he's already mentally tired, now he's using the last of his energy to be angry. Useless and stupid, but so very human of him.

He rolls his shoulder, "I'll be in my tent, if Dutch makes up his mind,"

 


	7. Chapter 7

The sun comes up, Arthur is laying in his bed, awake and tired and angry. So angry at nothing and everything, makes him feel like a boy again, like the world's against him like he's out fighting by himself. In a sense, it's true, in another, he's so, so wrong.  
  
He doesn't want to go out, doesn't think he has enough energy anyway, he hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, his leg was giving him hell since he forgot to take the painkillers, again, and feels too tired to get them, can't seem to grasp enough sense to push his sorry ass out of bed and help himself.  
  
And so he just lays there, staring at the ceiling of his tent, listening to the camp slowly waking up, listening to the sound of nature and the wind. Laying in a state of limbo, between panic, fear and unnerving calmness. He can hear shared good mornings, the sound of coffee bubbling, the sound of Pearson preparing breakfast. It's calming, a routine he's used to hearing, has been for the past 20 years, close on 21.  
  
Eventually, Arthur pulls himself together, enough to check his bandages and taking a swig of Laudanum to help him continue the day. He tucks the crutch under his arm securely, anger fading into tiredness. He really wishes to take a bath, but he can't, has to wait till the end of the week or risk hurting what's left of his leg and besides, it's not like he can go take a dip in the river anymore and his options stop there.  
  
Exiting his tent, Arthur pointedly ignores the shift in the atmosphere, wincing once he sees Micah sitting by the tree beside the lake, admiring his pistol. He has half a mind to go right back into his tent and hideaway, but he's not a coward and he can still pack a punch, that is if Micah so much as looks at him too long.  
  
As he always seems to nowadays, Arthur sits himself by the table. Sadie is cleaning one of her rifles, she passes him a brief good morning before returning to the task at hand. Arthur looks around, catching sight of Pegasus pawing at the ground, moving around the others horses but obediently staying within the camp limits. Someone had done him the favor of removing his saddling, tack gone and neatly placed beside the other saddles.  
  
Someone taps on the table, startling Arthur out of his trance. Dutch stands beside him, face carefully concealed, mannerisms carefully controlled so that Arthur can't figure out what he's thinking, Arthur doubts even Hosea can read him with so much control. "Arthur," he starts and Arthur blinks in response, frozen as he stares up at Dutch, fear he'd stowed resurfacing and wiping away the anger that has been draining him, "I would like... to have a word," he says and Arthur can only bring himself to nod, Dutch steps back as Arthur pushes himself to his foot, snatching the crutch as he wobbles slightly. Dutch places a hand on his elbow to stabilize him and Arthur restrains himself from pushing him away.  
  
Hesitantly, Arthur follows, eyes trained on the ground as he hobbles after Dutch. The action, while previously Arthur had thought was annoying, makes him feel humiliated. He can feel the eyes on him, burning his cheeks in renewed shame and Arthur can't help but wish Hosea was here. 

Dutch pulls the tent's flap closed behind Arthur, motioning for him to take a seat and Arthur complies silently, afraid to say something that might bring on an onslaught he'll never be ready for. Although he knows in the back of his mind that Hosea is the one he sees as an actual father, Dutch is still a significant figure in his life, one that he cares very much about and holds his views highly. Arthur worriedly runs his tongue against the inside of his teeth, jaw clenched tightly as he watches Dutch pace a few steps, forward and backward, again and again, one hand on his chin as he gazes on the ground thoughtfully. 

Arthur can't help it, the tightness in his throat, the anxiety overflowing as he clears his throat. Dutch pauses and sighs as he runs a hand down his face and turns to Arthur, who looks down in turns. The silence is deafening, Arthur notes that even camp outside is equally as silent, most definitely eavesdropping on the conversation that  _is not happening._

"How-how..." Dutch tries, shaking his head and pacing a few steps before turning to Arthur again, "What- _who_ did this?" he finally manages and Arthur frowns, blinking stupidly as anger surfaces on Dutch's face. Arthur shrinks, hunching over himself as he looks at the ground pointedly, the reminder that an  _O'Dirscoll_ crippled him makes his face heat up. "Arthur," Dutch says and Arthur waits, sensing the continuation of that sentence, "Arthur,  _son,_ " he emphasizes and Arthur blows a breath, tension leaking from his shoulders as he slowly looks up, "I-I know it must be hard, and you-you're so  _strong_ for taking such an important decision," he takes ahold of Arthur's shoulder, bending to be on Arthur's level and looking him in the eyes, determined and sympathetic, "Hosea told me...you think I'll kick you out?"

"Wouldn't blame ya," Arthur mumbles and Dutch shakes his head, "I'm useless, Dutch,"

"Not useless, Son," Dutch replies, "I have hope, I have faith in you," he says, shaking Arthur's shoulder slightly, squeezing it as Arthur's gaze drops, "You have that prosthetic?" Dutch asks and Arthur nods, "then we have hope, and even if, we can find something, and even  _then_ we won't leave you behind, Arthur, you're like a son to me, a comrade and one of the people I care about, I  _care_ about you," Dutch says with conviction in his voice, looking Arthur in the eyes with creed-filled eyes. Arthur feels himself relax, and not that he'll ever admit it, he can feel tears fill his eyes, but they don't fall as Arthur looks up for a moment before back at Dutch again, smiling slightly as his chest becomes light, loose.

"Thank you," Arthur croaks, sniffing quietly as Dutch nods with a smile of his own, gently patting Arthur's shoulder and stands, hand resting on Arthur's head for a moment before it drops.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the awfully long break! I'm so close to finishing my exams and I have finally finished my moving!... or at least mostly.
> 
> Promise next update will be up asap!
> 
> Thank you for waiting!

It's the start of July, exactly one week since Arthur had returned to camp. Things haven't mellowed out yet, things haven't even started to; Arthur still holes himself up in his tent, flaps drawn and barely seeing the light of day. Once or twice he'd gone out to eat, only because either Hosea forced him or John had coaxed him enough. Few bothered to visit, or few _managed_  to visit. Arthur had dismissed anyone who'd call out to him, Tilly, Sadie, once it was Javier, another it was, strangely, Bill. Those who have not given up after Arthur had very directly told them to fuck off were Charles, Hosea, John, and Dutch. The latter three didn't come as a surprise, being that they had put up with Arthur's stubbornness and general coping mechanisms for a couple of decades now. But Charles...he was surprisingly easy to accept, he didn't mind sitting in the shade, or darkness, of Arthur's tent. If it happened he visited at night, he'd force Arthur into turning the lantern on, if it was at day, he'd push on of the tent flaps open. Arthur didn't bother arguing after the first few times, Charles was equally, if not more, stubborn than he is. He had a quick and sharp tongue too, any insult or jib Arthur would throw at him, it would be retaliated in equal measures, and it strangely made Arthur feel better.

Whether or not it's related to the change in his other visitors, that being the way John and Hosea, even Dutch, would coax him and look at him...

That made having the injury ten times worse. The way John would let him say whatever he wanted with nothing more than an annoyed twitch, or how Hosea would always look at him with a pitying glint, or how Dutch would always rush to his side whenever he decided his hygienic needs were stronger than his shame. They all didn't want to upset him, in one sense, he's grateful, in another, he knows someone would have slapped him silly if he had said half the shit he spewed this week, that is, if he was normal. He missed it, oddly enough. He missed John's retorts, even if they have had a chasm between them for... so long, too long. He missed Hosea's halfhearted insults or his jokes about him being lazy or useless. He even missed the way Dutch would talk of their camp needs, how there's something interesting around, how he found a tip about a job. Nothing gets spoken around Arthur anymore, whether because they deemed him useless, which they have every right to, or know it'll cause more harm than good, seeing as Arthur would try and weasel his way into work, one way or another. 

 Today the sun is high, and the air is thicker and heavier than usual. To the point that Arthur had sweat through two shirts before he decided that his tent wasn't a place to stay in such weather. It also sends a reminder that he can finally wear his prosthetic. The prospect that was once too far away now terrified him, for several reasons. What if he can't use it? What if isn't able to accommodate to it, what if it doesn't fit? 

What if it still changes nothing?

He blows a heavy breath, shaking his head before reaching out to the wooden leg he'd tucked under his table. It's still clean, the leather is smooth and the metal holding the leather to the wood is still shining. He unties the knot dangling under his stump, pulling back the pant leg as much as he can before he slowly places the leg under his stump, fitting it inside the hollowed wood and testing the fit. He's unsure, the wood squeezes a bit on what's left of his calf, but he counts it as more of a win. At least it won't fall off. The leather feels soft as he wraps it around his thigh, ties the strings as tight as he can without cutting off the blood and...

he's done.

That was it, he now has a new leg. A wooden leg. He fits his boot, which thankfully fits albeit with a little bit of pulling, on top of it before he gives it a test, raising his leg and slowly bending his knees. It's a bit of a strain, the screws may be a little too tight, he has to really force it to bend, but nothing a bit of oil won't fix. Finally, new hope in his chest, Arthur pulls down his pant leg, grabs on to the table and stands, hopping on his full foot out of habit before slowly lowering his other leg. He stands, and once he let's go of the table, he's still standing and it feels too good, it feels like resolution. Arthur, with a new spark deep in his chest and a knot in his stomach, takes a step. 

He wobbles, for a moment he thinks he'll fall, for a moment his heart squeezes. But he manages to stabilize himself, moves closer to the tent exit. There's a limp in his movement, his leg slipping up each time he moves, then down when he presses it against the ground. It's disappointing, but the feeling is squashed by the feeling of freedom. He can walk, at the very least, and that is a change from his yesterday self. Arthur smiles for a moment, a private smile as he looks down at the ground and for a moment, all he can see is his two feet, and not the knot ending under his calf. For a fleeting moment, he can feel normal, _whole_. 

He steps out of his tent, pulling back the tent flap as he does, and, as usual, the camp focuses on him and solely on him. His face reddens, again, not something new, but this time, the shame is hidden under the happiness lodging itself in his heart. 

Hosea is the first to react, a wide grin pulling at his cheeks and he abandons his newspaper, instead making his way towards Arthur. "Arthur!" Hosea says voice chirp and Arthur jerks his head in acknowledgment, "How-how does it feel?" He asks, a bit quieter and Arthur lets a smile grace his face.

"It's...it's fine," he replies, it's not his leg, but it's better than what some have, and that's all he can hope for. 

"That's wonderful," Hosea grins, "So you're going to take a stroll?"

"I don't know about strolls but...I can't stay cooped up in my tent, or at least, not anymore," He sighs, wiping a hand down his face as he glances back to where he just came from, the tent still shaded and dark, "I was thinking, maybe I could do something, you know, I....it's been a long time since I've gone anywhere and it's getting old," Arthur explains, absentmindedly scratching at his growing beard. He needs to shave.

Thinking about it, he needs a shower too. Maybe he can head to Rhodes and buy a bath, swing by the barber as well. 

"Oh?" Hosea purses his lips for a second, looking halfway to shooting Arthur's request down before he sighs and turns to look around the camp, "Sure," he answers, his smile returning.

"Really?" Arthur asks, shocked that it had been that easy, too easy. He doesn't question it but remains suspicious.

"Yeah, where will you be heading?" Hosea asks curiously and Arthur shrugs, answering Rhodes and the older man frowns, "Okay, but keep your eye out, you know the business with the Greys had fallen out, John and Sean said that some of their boys were tailing them,"

"Ain't Dutch concerned?" Arthur asks, shifting on his foot, swaying for a moment when he stepped the wrong way. He brushes it off, at least he's standing. 

"Oh, he is, he's been concerned about a lot of things," Hosea waves a dismissive hand, "We'll be moving soon, once we find a place to stay, that is," 

"I could go out to look," Arthur suggests, knows it's a long shot and the chances of Hosea agreeing are slim, slim enough that he crosses his fingers as he waits. Hosea stares at him for a moment, scanning his face, and Arthur is hyper-aware from the fact that every so often his eyes twitch downwards, tempted to look at his feet, "I... I can take someone with me if you want," 

"Look, Arthur," Hosea jumps to his defense, "It's not that I don't trust you'll be okay... I know you're a tough son of a bitch but..." he trails off, eyes falling somewhere to 

"I understand,"  Arthur said quietly, "I won't go if it'll cause you trouble,"  he assures and Hosea's jaw slackens, looking like he's one second away from apologizing. Arthur shakes his head, eyeing Pegasus, who kicks at the ground, looking up and trotting closer, bypassing the boundaries before Kieran hurries to grab ahold of the horse, leading him back with a carrot as a bribe. They're both ready for a ride, Arthur knows Pegasus was an energetic one, almost matched Boadicea, and neither horses liked to stay in camp for more than a day. At least he looks well groomed, coat shining and mane newly detangled. He doesn't know that Kieran kid very well, hasn't yet gotten over his distrust, but at least he's useful. 

"I just want to give you time to... get used to how things are going," Hosea manages, glancing over his shoulder and following Arthur's gaze, "I can't stop you from doing anything, all I ask is that you take care, son," Hosea says, clapping Arthur's shoulder and giving him an encouraging jerk of his head, "Now go on, you look like you haven't bathed in a week," he jokes with a gentle laugh and Arthur rolls his eyes, but feels his chest lighten a bit.

"I'm goin', I'm goin'," he replies dramatically, hesitantly taking a step forward, pointedly ignoring the limp, "I don't want Grimshaw to have my ear, anyway," he mumbles under his breath but Hosea laughs anyway, turning on his heel as Arthur makes his way to Pegasus, who nickers at him and steps away from the hay, "You okay, boy?" Arthur coos, smiling as pegasus licks at his shoulder, leaving a wet stain but he doesn't mind, he has clothes in his saddlebag he plans to change into. Pegasus nickers again, liping at Arthur's hand then pockets and pulling away when he discovers no treats, "Sorry, boy," Arthur croons softly, petting under Pegasus' jaw, "Promise I'll buy you some peppermint, sound good?" Arthur smiles when Pegasus snorts, pushing Arthur's head with his for a moment before Arthur turns to get his saddle off of the hitching post where Kieran had kindly set it.

Pegasus follows him, and Arthur straps him in with a content hum and finally, Arthur gets to swing himself into the saddle, both legs settling with ease into the stirrups and they kick off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, if you're wondering or simply curious, the leg I gave Arthur is a mix between these two prosthetics, 
> 
> https://i.pinimg.com/originals/65/ae/21/65ae21bd97d2598a23fc23467ef5516a.jpg
> 
> http://dim.blenderge.com/Images/ProstheticLeg/Beauty_04.png
> 
> the mix being the leg part of picture 1 and the leather part of picutre 2


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll update ASAP" I said, 25 days ago "promise" I said. 
> 
> This, for some unknown reason, bordered on crack at the end there. But anyway, i've finally chosen an ending for this story, after a hectic week of planning all my fics out properly, I'm ready to put my plans to action.

Rhodes is somehow hotter than camp, as Arthur rides in, hat in hand and fanning himself with it every other minute. The air didn't get any colder, and as Arthur rode Pegasus, hot air had whipped his face and made him sweat even more.  So ,  it had given him all the more reason that he should bathe, and he had become acutely aware of how much he truly  _ stunk _ . Sure, he was no  _ ablutomaniac _ _ ,  _ but he'd taken up the habit of showering regularly so he wouldn't always smell of horse, blood, and sweat. A morbid triangle of malodors, Grimshaw had called it, and as the years had run by, he had started to take comfort in a good bath or shower, whatever had been offered. 

The Bartender had given him the bath for almost half the price, a small thanks for the last time he'd saved him from a couple of drunk Raider's who'd tried to choke him out.  He gives a vague remark about his disheveled appearance, that being his  sweat soaked shirt, overgrown beard and general low level of hygiene. Arthur didn’t reply, mumbling his thanks and turning to the stairs.

It had been harder than expected, going up the stairs, a harder ordeal than climbing his saddle. His stump kept digging into the hollow of his leg, making him stumble, and on more than one step, he had slipped; somehow forgetting that a wooden leg doesn’t bend and flex like a normal foot would, and he’d made a right fool of himself. 

But he made it upstairs, and the few patrons of the early morning had been either too engrossed in their drinks to care, or too busy with their chatter to side-eye what Arthur was doing. He had loaded his extra clothes into his satchel, which fit with surprising ease, since it had been emptied of most his money, tonics, and his little trinkets. There was a girl checking on the water when he’d entered, and she bashfully removed her hand from the water, asking if he’d like some help. He politely declined, and she had removed herself fairly quickly. 

The bath was frothing, smelling like roses and soap, a bottle of champagne sitting on a metal tray with a delicate looking glass beside it. Arthur made quick work of undressing, debating taking off his leg or not, deciding that he doesn’t want the leather to weather. 

He wobbled into the water, sinking into the warm water, maybe too warm for the weather outside, but the heat helps Arthur’s muscles relax. He sinks till his nose is barely above the water, letting his shoulders drop and leg stretch as far as it can. He closes his eyes, letting the smell of soap wrap his head and the feel of bubbles popping against his  ear and  the back of his head.

It soothes him, reminds him of a better time. It’s almost a habit at this point, reminiscing about his olden days when it was easier to pull off a heist and there weren’t so many rivalries to keep track of and the law wasn’t always breathing down their neck. When all Arthur had to worry about was what he’s going to hunt for dinner and how long he’ll stay in the sun. Those were a good ten years, ten years of easy thieving and little losses. In retrospect, it seems like everything went downhill after Bessie and Annabelle passed, when life got a little bit darker and the need for revenge seemed to radiate from the leaders.

Maybe they’d been the last of their luck, maybe they were the kick of common sense they needed and lost. Sure, Hosea is there to talk sense into Dutch, but Arthur had never seen someone have a stronger hold on Dutch than Annabelle, that woman was mighty, and she could sense Dutch’s crooked plans from a mile away. 

The water starts to cool, and Arthur reminds himself that he needs to actually clean himself before the water gets too cold. So, he grabs the soap bar, running it across his body and struggling to reach his back, deciding after a few swipes that it’s clean enough. Without looking at the water, he dunks his head under, only for a moment, enough to wet it so he’d be able to soap it as well. 

With the task done, Arthur steps out, draining the water as he leans against the tub and dries himself with the given towel. The set of clothes seem to somehow fit better while he’s clean, and he doesn’t feel as self-pitying as he’d been a few days back. 

With his leg safely back on, clothes fresh, and skin smelling sweet from the rosy water and soap; Arthur sets out. Making his way carefully down the stairs, exiting into the sun, still hot and burning but not as scorching as Arthur had thought it was. Pegasus nickers a greeting, not even fifteen minutes and he’s ready to be ridden again. The stallion bumps his head against Arthur’s shoulder, giving a lick to his chest before his head bows towards Arthur’s satchel, nosing around for treats. 

Arthur pushes his head up, and Pegasus almost hits him as he raises his head, blowing a breath in his face. Arthur laughs, digging through the pocket of his satchel for a peppermint, shoving one under Pegasus’ nose when he finds it. The horse happily lips at Arthur’s hand, crunching down the treat and raising his head with a satisfied noise. 

He pets the stallion’s mane, running his fingers through the fine hairs, and after a moment, decides that the heat is too much. With the reins untangled from the hitching post, Arthur swings himself into the saddle, happy that his foot fits in the stirrup just fine, something he hadn’t worried about till it had become a threat. 

He squeezes Pegasus into a lazy trot, simply moving along the city folk (who must be happy Arthur is no-longer speeding around), he has no desire to do any certain thing. By now, Arthur would have set off hunting or would have simply gone to enjoy the surrounding nature. 

That sparks an idea into Arthur’s mind, and the presence of his camera seems ever-so-prevalent. It’s a small activity Arthur had indulged himself every so often, taking pictures of pretty sunsets and wildlife he’d pass by. He hadn’t photographed in a good while, not since Blackwater. Jenny had always asked for photographs of the oddities he finds, the people he meets or artifacts he finds. She always tucked them in a small journal, the one Lenny had bought her for her first birthday celebrated with them.

With a new task at mind, Arthur trots out of Rhodes, heading away from civilization and away from any human contact. The plains of Lemoyne, while previously daunting and boring, had grown on Arthur. The pale-yellow tint that plagues the soil, the permanently short grass, paled and on the brink of overexposure from the constant heat. 

The horizon glows, sun peeking over a hill and Arthur pauses, it’s a good enough of a start, pretty enough of a view. He turns to his saddle bag, the one he’d reserved for the boxy machine, and fished out his camera, turning in his hands. He remembers how he’d gotten it, on an ambitious heist of a wealthy man’s mansion, with John and him dressing and acting as workers on the businessman’s farm and sneaking into the house at an early hour to strip the place. They were almost caught, but they emerged victoriously and with enough money and valuable to last them months. The camera had been one of the things Arthur had conserved to himself, and Dutch had been satisfied with the rest of the take that he’d allowed him to keep it. It was another fond memory, and it fills his head with a happy fog as he slides down from his saddle, wobbling before he takes a few steps to the side and bends slightly for a better angle.

The click of the camera is familiar to his ear, and he holds it close to his chest for a moment, staring out to the blinding sun and watching as a small group of deer skip by, careless in the beat of their step, almost weightless as they run around  each other .

Pegasus snorts, emitting a low rumble in his throat that snaps Arthur back to reality.

It’s no longer a peaceful sight, the sun’s slow descent. Arthur can feel the weight of a gaze on his back, decades of training and exp erie nce leaving him with an acute sense  for danger. His hand drops to his pistol, the feel of the engraving on its grip a relief as he pulls it out of its holster, thumb pulling back the hammer. 

Pegasus snorts again, whinnying and shaking his head, his own sense for dangers flaring. Three sets of footsteps crunch closer to Arthur, and he ha phaza rdly stuffs the camera into his satchel. A man circles into his view, another following after a second and the third stands behind Arthur. 

Arthur turns, taking in the men, noticing  the similar hats they’re wearing. He didn’t know what he expected, but he knows what he had hoped for, and Lemoyne Raiders weren’t it. “Hello, Mister,” one of them greets, but it’s anything but warm, “ Whatchu  doing in these parts?” 

“Minding my business, unlike some,” he replies, tone cold. Hosea had often told him it was a bad habit of his, mouthing at his opponents, but he’d grown and survived on mouthing people off. The Raider scoffs, squinting at Arthur before stepping closer.

“Hey, wait a minute,” he drawls, and Arthur swears internally. He’d been getting increasingly popular with the local militia, what with fighting, killing and stealing from them whenever he encounters them. He’d been recognized before, ambushed even, and again, he had hoped they wouldn’t recognize him, “ Ain’t  you that-”

He never gets to finish that sentence, Arthur drawing his gun and shooting him right between his eyes, and the remaining two men stand for a moment in silence, a moment that Arthur takes advantage of and sets off towards Pegasus. 

The adrenaline of a gunfight, or escaping one to be exact, is surprisingly comforting after weeks of absence. The thrill of narrowly surviving bullets, dodging death and setting off a chase burns his blood. It’s a dangerous feeling, one that Hosea had spent years helping Arthur school, and gradually it had faded enough that it no longer made him reckless. But today is different, the rock of Pegasus galloping under him makes him feel like he’s flying,  _ untouchable _ . Running with the reigns slack in his right hand, left hand holding his pistol.

The Lemoyne Raiders follow suit, shouting and attracting nearby friends of theirs. It’s all the more thrilling as Arthur twists in his saddle, arm unsteady from the pace of his stallion, and he shoots, some sick gut twisting satisfaction spreading through him when one of them fell off their horse, head spewing blood. 

He turns, surveying where Pegasus was taking them, realizing they’d gone further up to New Hanover, almost passing the Stateline now. Further away from camp than he anticipated, but that didn’t matter, not now, anyway. 

On the railroads, Pegasus lets out a high pitch scream, and that’s all the warning Arthur gets before they’re both falling towards the ground, fast. He can feel the pressure of his foot catching in the stirrup, leather tightening around his thigh before there is release, and Arthur’s shoulder collides with the metal of the tracks harshly. His head bounces, cheek hitting the edge of the railroad but thankfully his head misses the tracks, and he’s quick to ignore his aching shoulder, hand flying to his secondary pistol, firing at the closing in Lemoyne Raiders. 

There’s two left, and their horses circle around Arthur, the men themselves continuing on foot. Arthur scoots back, realizing bitterly that his leg had fallen off, now lying beside Pegasus who writhing on the ground, letting soft hurt noises as he struggles with the bullet wound, now lodge in his ribs. Bastards, Arthur thinks, a new feeling burning his blood. He’d never had sympathy for the Raiders he’d killed, a bunch of loony racist folk who take joy in terrorizing others? Had sounded like guilt-free target practice from day one. 

His pistol seems to get heavier in his hand, and a burning urge to kill electrified Arthur’s veins. Before the men can raise their guns at him, he raises his own, aiming for their chest, knowing full well that it’d take a minute before they die, a minute he hopes full of  agony . 

The two shots are unsatisfying, watching the men fall and choke, slightly more satisfying but still, Pegasus makes a low noise, legs kicking out, still holding on to life, still in pain. 

Arthur crawls towards him, laying a gentle hand on the stallion's jaw, another between his ears. Pegasus looks at him, dark eyes boring into Arthur’s soul before he closes them, head moving closer to Arthur. “You did a great job, boy,” Arthur consoles, and Pegasus huffs, head raising for a moment, and Arthur slides a hand underneath it, the heavyweight hurting his shoulder, but he could care less, “Rest now, you can take a rest,” he coos, stroking Pegasus’s mane, and slowly, the stallion lets out a final huff before his legs stop moving, and his head become heavier in Arthur’s arms.

After a long pause, Arthur slides his arm from under Pegasus’ head, giving a final pat to his neck as he pulls away, feeling slowly returning to his hand. Losing a horse always was hard on him, Boadicea had been his favorite throughout the years, but Pegasus was a close second, rivaling Boadicea in her strength and energy. He sighs, moving towards his leg, strewn over the ground with no particular rush. He fits it against his foot, grumbling to himself when his pants wouldn’t fold over his thigh, deciding that he’d tuck the remaining leather unbounded and continue on his way. 

Luck never was his strong suit, it’s something he’d lived with for most his life, bad luck. But right now, Arthur might call himself the unluckiest son of a bitch to walk the earth. 

With his leg back on, Arthur pushes himself unsteadily to his feet, with nothing to hold on to, the action takes longer than usual. He takes a look around, eyes falling on the two horses standing by, the two left behind by the Lemoyne raiders. From what he can tell, one is a thoroughbred and another is a mean looking Ardennes, with tangled locks forming his mane, and  its feathering  looking rather uncared for. Looking mean for a reason, Arthur reckons. 

He approaches the Ardennes slowly, hands held out as a sign of peace. The horse looks at him shiftily, stomping one foot as Arthur extends a hand to pat its neck. One quick check tells him that this horse is a gelding, and by observation, one that doesn’t get patted much, but seems to like the action. Arthur tests how far he could stretch the non-existing bond between them, reaching for the reins and leading the horse in a circle. He huffs and shakes his head, but complies, following Arthur around and standing in wait when the reins got released from Arthur’s grip. 

He turns towards Pegasus’ corpse, untying the straps of his saddle and pushing it from under him. It takes a few tries, but he manages in the end. With that done, he turns towards the Ardennes, slowly making his way towards him and setting down the saddle, raking a hand down the side of his neck and reaching for the leather straps of the previous owner’s saddle. The Ardennes shakes his head, but remains still, that is, until Arthur starts to pull off the saddle itself. The Ardennes snorted loudly, and Arthur had little time to retract his actions before the horse kicked him, sending him flying back.

It takes a moment to register, the pain in his ribs that spirals to his stomach, the fact that he’s staring up at the darkening sky, the sound of hoofbeats circling around him. Once he comes to, he decides that life  _ really  _ doesn’t like him, or he’d done something to piss off God to this extent.

He pushes past the pain, the want to go home overpowering him, and he has no real way of assessing the damage, so no reason to linger. He stands, although he bends with the pain in his chest, hoping it’s just a bruised rib. The saddle had fallen off the Ardennes when it had kick Arthur, and the gelding himself stands a few feet away, looking at Arthur challengingly. 

 Once Arthur inspects the horse, even from afar, he realizes  _ why  _ it had kicked him. There are specs of white pale white against the reddish-brown coating, the aftermath of  _ some _  type of punishment. There are lines of poorly healed wounds across it’s back, probably forced to be ridden while they’re still fresh. “What’ve they done to you, boy?” Arthur mumbles to himself, limping, whether from the pain plaguing his torso or his ill-fitted leg he can’t figure out, towards the horse. 

He doesn’t blame it for being skittish, and when the gelding turns away, Arthur pauses, reaching in his satchel for a treat, finding an apple he’d picked up from Pearson’s station. The Ardennes turns towards him, intrigued, sniffing at Arthur’s hand before greedily chomping down on the fruit. “Figured you’d like some food,” Arthur blabbers thoughtlessly, “Don’t think I’m  gonna  give up on you now, huh, boy?” The gelding huffs, sniffing at Arthur’s hand in search of another treat, “Hungry?” he hums, reaching in his satchel again and clicking his tongue in victory when he found a carrot, wrapped and tucked at the bottom.

The Ardennes happily eats it, pushing its Arthur’s satchel, discovering the source of the food. Arthur gently pushes away it’s nosing lips, patting the poorly treated mane and frowning in distaste at the multiple tangles he sees. When he manages to saddle him and get back to camp, he’s going to spend the rest of the day untangling the hair. An endeavor he doesn’t particularly enjoy but is sure the gelding (that he really needs to name if he’s truly going to keep him) would  appreciate .

Once he’s satisfied that the Ardennes somewhat trusts him, he picks up the fallen saddle again with a pained huff, pausing when the Ardennes stomps a foot, but he doesn't run. Unsure if he’ll survive another kick, Arthur sets the saddle under its nose, letting it inspect and see that it contains no harm. After a few moments, the gelding raises its head, turning away from the saddle in disinterest. 

Arthur takes it as a good sign, picking it up again despite his ribs protesting and slowly, carefully, slides it onto the horse’s back. He steps back, letting the Ardennes get used to the saddle again before he reaches for the buckle underneath, freezing when it snorted, shaking his head and stomping a foot. “Easy boy,” Arthur soothes, “Promise you, no harm,” he reaches his free arm to the skittish horse’s neck, giving it a few pats till he stooped his head down low and nosed at the ground. 

Finally, after a moment of tense anticipation, Arthur tightens the buckle and steps back, surveying his small success. The weight of losing Pegasus hunkers down his heart, but he busies himself by making a mental list of all the grooming tasks he can offer the poor horse, makes a list of things he can do to let it trust him. He doesn’t know what to do with Pegasus’ corpse, he’d never buried a horse before. He didn’t get the chance with Bubba since he had to flee from the mass of lawmen on their back. And again, Boadicea didn’t get the chance, seeing as when she collapsed, he barely could get  enough time  to swing himself onto Lenny’s horse, Maggie. 

But now Pegasus is out in the open, and the threat had been eradicated. And he doesn’t know what to do. He thinks maybe he can pull the corpse to a secluded spot, come back later with a shovel and dig a proper grave. But it feels disrespectful to drag Pegasus and leave him be. It’s conflicting, but he settles on his plan, unzips his saddlebag and pulls out his lasso. 

He ties both the hind legs together, pausing and skimming his hand across the bullet wound, biting the inside of his cheek before grabbing the other end of the lasso and grabbing the Ardennes’ reins, hooking the lasso around the saddle horn and giving a gentle pat to his nose. 

The gelding shifts nervously when Arthur mounts up, but he’s quick to settle when Arthur slides a hand against his neck and shoulders, whispering consoling words into his ear. He gives a gentle squeeze, and the gelding starts into a trot. It’s easy enough to steer him, and he guesses that he’s being docile in fear of punishment, one that Arthur will make sure will never come again.

It’s nighttime when Arthur trots back to camp, he had tucked Pegasus’ body in a clearing out in the Heartland’s woods. He’d taken his time on his return, not wanting to push the Ardennes (he’s still toying with names he could use) and simply taking in the beauty of nature. Lemoyne always had a spectacular starry night, and sometimes Arthur thinks he could see the entire universe just from one angle. He had swung by Rhodes again too, buying a few treats for his new gelding. The horse seemed even  _ more  _ nervous around other people, requiring constant assurance whilst on their short stay.

Lenny calls out, and Arthur answers back. The pain in his chest had subsided, and so did the throb of his shoulder. He had hoped that no one would notice the change in horses, and the whole ordeal could go unknown, but it seems that once he’s stepped into camp, Dutch was by his side with a pensive look. 

“What the hell happened?” He asked, and Arthur inwardly cringed, “Are you okay? who did this?” he asks, and it seems that that kicks up enough commotion for Hosea and Grimshaw to trudge from wherever they’d been around camp. 

This time, Arthur actually lets out a disappointed sigh. “What happened?” Hosea echoed, and Grimshaw skipped the talk completely, grabbing Arthur’s chin with a surprising gentleness as opposed to the scary glare she leveled him, it’s  _ then _  that he realizes he probably bruised his face in the process, and that’s what raised Dutch’s attention.

“Nothing, I’m fine!” Arthur tries, but Dutch gives him an unamused look and Hosea crosses his arm. There’s no winning when all three of them are on him like this, it’s one of the first things he’d learned, “I was just out and about and encountered a few disagreeable men, namely the Raiders and-”

“And you didn’t  _ run _ ?” Dutch asks, looking scandalized and in turns, Arthur starts to feel slightly offended and defensive.

“Why would I  _ run, _  I had it covered,” He argues and Grimshaw raises a suspecting eyebrow, “I  _ did _ ,” 

“Then what happened to Peg?” Hosea inquires, hand motioning at the Ardennes shifting nervously around the other horses, Ennis and Silver Dollar eyeing him with curiosity. 

“He got shot, but-”

“Arthur!” Grimshaw gasps overdramatically, and Arthur would have run a hand through his hair if his hands weren’t busily motioning at himself.

“I’m  _ fine _ , stop being over dramatic!” he has an incredible urge to stomp like a child, and his mouth almost curls into a frown, but he holds his offended expression.

“If Peg got shot, then that means you fell off the horse,” Hosea points out unhelpfully, and a realization dawns on Dutch’s face.

“I’m fine,” Arthur repeats, and Dutch claps his shoulder, probably in a gesture that should mean that he needs to calm down, but his shoulder stings in the aftermath and he  inadvertently flinches at the touch. Hosea purses his lips, and Arthur holds his breath, knowing that if his shirt got taken off, then the bruising he feels around his torso will be available for the three bullheaded parent-figures  in front  of him to see.

“Show me your shoulder,” Hosea says after a moment, and Arthur hangs his mouth open, wanting to argue back but Hosea levels him with a glare, and he gives in. 

“Fine, but I’m not letting you put me on lockdown if you don’t like what you see,” Arthur replies, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it off the shoulder he landed on. He hadn’t looked at the damage himself, but now, in the light of the nearby fire, he can see the flowering blue and black surrounding his shoulder and shoulder-blades. There’s also a bruise feathering into his sides, the source of his chest pain. He can’t deny it, it looks  _ bad _ , even more so when Dutch pulls back the other side of the shirt and reveals the hoof mark engraved into the skin under his ribs. 

“Alright, so it looks bad but-”

“Looks  _ bad,  _ Arthur most of your chest is  _ blue!”  _ Dutch raises his voice, and Arthur rolls his eyes, Hosea  prods  at the bruise, and Arthur flinches when a coil of fire twists around his intestines at the touch. 

“Hosea, you have to understand-”

“Understand what?” Hosea interjects, and Arthur wanted badly to mouth back, but he pursed his lips instead, “Arthur, you understand that every time you come back, you’re beaten up or hurt in  some way ?”

“It’s not like I’m seeking it out, I’m just bad luck, and besides, it’s not  _ every  _ time,”

“Really?” Hosea challenges and Arthur regrets his rebuttal almost instantly, “When we first arrived with the caravans here, you had a graze on your arm,” he states, and Arthur opens his mouth to counter it, but Hosea holds up a hand to silence him, “then, when you went out to explore, you came back drugged from that creepy couple you talked about,” Arthur remembers that day, waking up with the drugs still in his system and halfway down to hell, Hosea had given him some type of herbal and medicine mix that put him to sleep and he had woken up sore, but mostly fine, except for his missing satchel that contained most his money. Then he and Javier went out and killed the incest slimy bastards and got his money back. “Not to mention the time you came back cut up from hunting bears,”

“Or the time you came back almost dead from a snake bite,” Dutch adds, and Hosea nods in agreement, “and the time you came back with a broken finger and ribs from when you fell down a damn  _ mountain _ ,”

“or the time you came back with the bruise around your neck from that noose,” 

“That Charles saved you from,” 

“and the time you got beat up in the Saint-Denis saloon,”

“and I had to bail you out,”

“and the time-”

“Alright, I  _ get  _ it!” Arthur interjects, annoyed and slightly unnerved that they’d been keeping up with his record so raptly. He’d almost say he was  _ touched _  if the situation weren’t so belittling, “So, I’ve got a bad record, but I've made it  _ this  _ far, and I’m fine,”

“Except for the missing leg,” Grimshaw mutters under her breath

“and teeth,” Hosea adds

“and the bruises,” Dutch, too, adds. 

“You lot  _ suck _ ,” Arthur groans, and the three older people in front of him raise an eyebrow in strange unison “I’ll just drink some heath tonic and sleep it off, bruises can heal,” he argues, “you know what, in fact, I’m going to do that!”

“Arthur Morgan!” Grimshaw calls as Arthur almost dramatically walks away, if it weren’t for the limp, it would have made more of an impression. Nevertheless, Arthur doesn’t turn at her call, and instead, entering his tent and tying the flaps close as a clear indication that he wants no visitors. But at the back of his mind, he knows if Dutch, Hosea or Grimshaw wanted to keep scolding him, they’d cut down the latch and enter like it’s their own tent. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has anyone seen a bruise because of a horse kick before? Those things are nasty...
> 
> As promised, I wrote this chapter as fast as I can before I hit the wall of writers block!

It’s early morning when Arthur wakes up, a strange coldness plaguing his body. It sobers him quickly, and he almost shoots out before a hand presses him down again, and through the leaking light, he can make out Hosea’s face. 

“What ‘re you doing?” Arthur asks, tension leaving his body. Now that he’s more awake and less panicked, he can make out what the source of coolness is. There are wet rags laid across his abdomen and chest (which hadn’t been naked when he’d fallen asleep), probably in an attempt to sooth the bruising. Before Arthur had retired to sleep, he had downed what’s left of his Laudanum, because his chest had decided to wage war on him, and his stomach had tied knots around itself.  

He had expected the aftermath, after all, he hadn’t always been lucky with horses; and as a dumb teenager out on the streets with no money to get a horse legitimately, he had his fair share of obedient and loyal horses bucking, kicking and stepping on him. But, to be fair, he hadn’t gotten kicked in a good ten to fifteen years. Back then, he would have drunk himself till he couldn’t speak his own name and slept it off, but now, he can’t exactly do that. Wouldn’t trust himself to since alcohol had proven itself his enemy.  

Hosea sits on a newly added chair, his table moved towards the entrance instead of his bedside. There’s a bucket, Arthur assumes of water, and a rag soaking in it. Hosea is grinding up something or other, probably that Arnica ointment he always uses. Slowly, Arthur sits up, careful to keep the wet rag draped across most of the bruising.  

Hosea eyes him silently as Arthur slides his feet off the bed, “You need to tame that horse of yours,” he says after a moment, and Arthur lets out a dry chuckle. 

“Yeah, and bury my other,” Arthur sighs, rubbing the last of his sleep out his eyes. It’s a reminder of everything that had happened yesterday, the fact that an abused Ardennes who has a bad temper is now in place of Pegasus. He’ll probably have to face the repercussions of walking away from Dutch, too, Grimshaw will have his ear... 

At least Hosea is easy enough to give forgiveness.  

“I’ll come too,” Hosea suggests, voice soft enough that it doesn’t sound like he can’t be turned down. Arthur, on the brink of saying no, pauses, thinks about he hasn’t the slightest clue what to do, what to expect. He knows some type of animal will have gotten to the carcass, and he doesn’t think he’s in a good enough headspace, or physical strength, to haul a thousand-something pound horse. He’ll probably have to wrap him, or, in better words, it feels right to wrap him and not just dump his corpse. 

“Sure,” Arthur says after a moment, Hosea is useful, if not for anything then to keep Arthur’s head above water while he buries his loyal now-deceased-horse. Just thinking about it makes his chest fill with acid. He had always loved his horses, most of them do, it’s the only thing that you can be sure will have your back, the only piece of loyalty that’s reliable. Bubba, a grey Mustang that had once belonged to his mother, was the only companion Arthur had when his pa died and he was on his own. Boadicea, a silver Fox Trotter that Arthur had stolen from a breeding farm, had been a loyal and sturdy steed, and the longest lasting horse with him, it seemed. He’d found her as a two-year-old, and had lost her when she was on the cusp of thirteen years of age. Pegasus...Arthur had found him near strawberry, a thin brittle looking Mustang that had quite frankly put up a fight while Arthur attempted to train him. But he grew on Arthur quickly, and he had proved himself trustworthy and extremely playful once he got fed and cared for properly, he had watched Javier try and mount him and get bucked off, had seen the horse kick enemies while they chased Arthur.  

“Just tell me when you’re heading out,” Hosea leans closer, extending the mortar, a grainy paste inside. Arthur takes it silently, peeling away the rag and examining the bruising, which still looks quite terrible. He can see a faint outline of the horseshoe, red amongst the sea of purple surrounding it. He winces at the sight rather than any real pain. There’s heat boiling his skin from where it folds on itself, and his shoulder stings, little pins under his muscles, sharp twinges of pain at the slightest pressure.  

Safe to say he’s banged up, but at least the bruise on his face is minimal. After the paste is carefully spread across his skin, Arthur stands unevenly, wobbling as his stump fits in the wooden leg. He’s still to be used to the feeling of sinking with each step, but for now, it’s easy to ignore, and the last of his concerns. “I think I’ll head out soon, don’t wanna bury a skeleton,”  

Hosea nods in understanding, standing to take his leave and allowing Arthur to change in privacy. Once he’d been properly dressed, pants changed, leg polished (the dust and dirt staining the wood had surprisingly bothered him), and boots fitted, he’d exited the tent.  

It’s been somewhat easier, handling the glances that got thrown at his way. The hint of a pause in action, like everyone, expects him to keel over at any given moment, maybe even tumble like a ragdoll. It’s still humiliating, a blow to his scarce ego, but it’s easier to ignore. Over time, they’ll get over the change, maybe a few weeks, a few months or, god forbid, a few years. If he even lives that long.  

The first person that catches his eyes is John, sitting by the campfire, shining his gun. Then, almost magnetized, Arthur slides his gaze across camp to where the Ardennes he’d adopted stands, almost at the very edge, away from the other horses. There isn’t even a moment where Arthur has to decide what to do, the drive to comfort the horse, who so obviously is uncomfortable, saddle still on, and he guiltily thinks that it must have not laid down to rest.  

The Ardennes seems a bit relieved at his return, moving a few timid steps closer as Arthur crosses to the gelding. He nickers at Arthur, who realizes a moment too late that his satchel is back in his tent, and he has no treats to offer. But the Ardennes seems happy enough with the cooed words Arthur whispers to him, bumping the side of his head against Arthur’s hand, and Arthur complies, giving a pat to his nose. The Ardennes ( _Adonis? No... doesn’t fit_ ), snorts happily, eyes closing as Arthur examines the knotted mane.  

He threads his thumb through one knot, pulling slightly till the hair eased. The gelding huffs, pulling away and Arthur soothes with a few soft pats and a scratch between his ears. He needs proper tools, he’s pretty sure they have a mane comb somewhere or other, and a soft brush, since the area of the scarring is probably sensitive. He should check his hooves too, there’s no telling whether the Raider that owned him had given a shit to properly care about the horse’s hooves. “Got a lot of work ahead of us, don’t we, boy?” Arthur murmurs, skidding his hand down the horse’s neck as he moves to take the saddle off. This time, hopefully, with no kicks.  

The Ardennes ( _Balder?... no_ ) turns his head to watch as Arthur loosened the flank cinch, only fidgeting when he got close to his flank, where the scars doubled in number.  

Arthur looks away for a second when his name gets called, untied strap in his arm and the Ardennes ( _Fortis?... doesn’t have a ring to it_ ) calming down. Javier waves as he switches duty with Sean, eyes falling back on the horse stomping at the ground.  

“All good, Javier?” Arthur asks, sparing a glance to ( _Stark?... not for this horse_ ) the gelding but focusing at Javier as he shifts from foot to foot. 

“I’m sorry about the whole... leg thing, I, uh, I wasn’t sure how to approach you,” Javier admits after a moment, “Didn’t think you’d want my... well lack of proper words, I don’t want you to think  _I_ think of you...differently,” he explains, his rifle getting slung over his shoulder. There’s a pause, where Arthur can’t decide if Javier has more to say or if he’s done and waiting for a response. 

“Well...” Arthur clears his throat, reaching over ( _Goliath? Jesus Christ, when did he become so bad at naming?_ ) the Ardennes’ flank to clap Javier’s shoulder, his side screaming at the stretch, shoulder needling. He rocks back on his heels, stumbling when he couldn’t flex his right foot before he remembers, and it strikes him with a burning disappointment, “Thanks, Javier,”  

“Yeah...sure,” Javier mumbles, nodding briefly before heading away, probably to sleep off the night shift. Arthur shakes his head but smiles privately as he bends to continue unstrapping the saddle.  

The gelding ( _Alban?... doesn’t sound right_ ) neighs softly when Arthur tries to lift the saddle, head shaking and a hoof stomping at the ground. Memory flashing, Arthur hides his chest behind the saddle, only immediately after, the gelding lets out a high neigh and kicks out, again. And this time, the saddle takes the hit, but still pushes Arthur, and he lands on his back. Again. He stares at the sky. Again. 

He coughs from the force, fingers still clutched tightly around the saddle in his hands as he sits up. Throws a glance at the Ardennes, who’s shyly hiding behind The Count. He sits up slowly, letting the saddle drop to his lap. There are several footsteps coming closer, and Arthur hangs his head,  _now_  he’s definitely getting an earful.  

To try and save face, he pulls himself out of his misery and stands unevenly, letting out an annoyed, “Ah...Jesus Christ.” 

“Are you alright?”  _Hosea_ , because of course, it is. Arthur waves dismissively, turning to take a look at who had gathered. As expected, Dutch and Grimshaw are there, Javier lurking at the edge, looking from his place at the camp. Tilly had toed the edge of the camp, knitting needles still in hand. Arthur could feel his face flush, and he tries to cover it by grabbing the discarded saddle. 

“ ‘m fine, Hosea,” Arthur tries, but Hosea being Hosea, and Dutch being Dutch, had pressed further.  

“You should go rest,” Dutch suggests, “A horse kick, it ain’t easy to-” 

“I’m fine, really,” Arthur repeats, swinging the saddle in his arm and using it as a barrier between him and Hosea’s prying hands, probably ready to check and prod at any possible new injuries or bruises. Just a year ago, Arthur would have loved this type of attention, hell, just a few months back he would’ve bathed, would have  _preened_ , in the parental concern that had resurfaced. But after this month, he doesn’t know how to interpret it without thinking of it as pity, or overprotection.  

“Can you at least take a breather? Let the horse rest,” Hosea waved at the general direction of the Ardennes, who’s pawing sniffing at Brown Jack, ears flicking around. Brown Jack stares at the Ardennes in interest, jerking his head as the Ardennes trails towards the hay-stack, where Maggie was munching. 

“No, either way, we need to head out in a few, and I want to groom him before we head out, make sure he doesn’t have any wounds I hadn’t seen,” Arthur shakes his head, moving to take a step. He pauses when Hosea places a hand on his shoulder, shooing Dutch and Grimshaw away. 

“Arthur,” he starts and the younger outlaw looks away from his scrutinizing gaze, “You don’t have to prove yourself, you know?” 

“prove myself?” Arthur parrots and Hosea fixes him a blank stare, “I’m  _not_ ,” is he? He's pretty sure he would’ve continued on even before he...lost the leg. He just wants to take care of the horse. _No, he isn’t trying to prove himself._

 _Is he?_  

“You’re barreling through those bruises, you strapped yourself and went out to and got into a shootout the  _first day_ you had your new leg. You’re not allowing your body to rest, to heal properly if you would’ve gotten kicked in the chest again, you would have died. And yet there you are, still going after a skittish horse you could easily sell, still not allowing a brief moment for your body to get back into its original state,” Hosea explains, voice soft, and Arthur turns away. 

“there’s no  _going back,_ Hosea _.”_ Arthur says with a bitter tone, “My leg won’t magically grow back if I stay in bed  _another_ week!” he controls his voice, only barely, and Hosea raises an eyebrow, “Besides, I’m  _fine_ , it’s just a bruise, I’m not a kid who’ll  _cry_ and stay in bed because I got banged up a bit.” He pauses, struggling for words before he drops the saddle and points an accusing finger at Hosea “ _You’re_ talking about me proving myself? You wouldn’t have given a shit if it  _weren’t_ for my damn missing leg! So  _no_ , I  _ain’t_ trying to prove myself, I’m trying to act like things are  _normal,”_  

 _“Wouldn’t give a shit?”_  Hosea hisses, unfamiliar anger across his face, makes Arthur shrink in his own skin, but the newly found anger (annoyance, more like) still burns his lungs, “Of course I would’ve given a shit if you were  _kicked by a horse,_  don’t be a moron!” he snaps, “I worry about you, and I’ve  _always_  worried about you, because you’re as good as my son, because, at this point, you  _are_ my  _son,”_  it’s borderline a shout, but Hosea presses his mouth into a thin line, crossing his arms, suppressing his urge to physically slap sense into Arthur's thick skull  “if you’re enough of an idiot to think I  _didn’t_ care before you lost your leg, then-then I’ve failed as...” he pauses, uncrossing his arms, “then I’ve  _failed_ as a  _father_ ,”  he sighs, head dropping and gaze falling to the ground, before he shakes his head and looks at Arthur again.

He looks defeated and Arthur bites down on the inside of his cheek in regret... maybe even shame “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says after a moment, annoyance and anger dissipating instantly, he and Hosea never really knew how to hold up an argument against each other, “I just want to work, alright? I don’t...I don’t like to be treated like...like..." He doesn't want to say it, the word itself souring his mood in _thought_ no matter if he actually admitted it, so, instead, "like I can’t take care of myself,” he completes. 

“It isn’t your strong suit,” Hosea admits, and Arthur sighs, rolling his shoulders, leaking the last of the tension away. Arthur, busy pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, hears Hosea chuckle. He rolls his eyes as he stoops to grab the saddle again, checking it for any cracks or breaks. Satisfied with what he finds, he looks back up at Hosea, "We'll have some food then head out, and...be careful around..."

"I haven't named him yet," Arthur says and Hosea nods, "Can't find a good name for him,"

"Well, you've only had him a day," Hosea quips optimistically, clapping Arthur's shoulder in good nature, "and you're good at finding names, I mean, you did name The Count," 

"And Old Belle," Arthur adds with a chuckle, Hosea briefly looks at the horse in question.

"And Ceto," Hosea says after a moment, a fond but slightly sad smile blossoming. Arthur sighs, but smiles in a similar matter, he'd missed the Fox Trotter, she'd been Bessie's and she was possibly one of the most docile and strong horses he'd met. Bessie wasn't one for fast riding, but Arthur was, and he had enjoyed taking rides on the Fox Trotter while his own temporary nag-Goliath wasn't technically  _his_ , but the owner was dead and he needed a ride home after Bobba ran out on him and got himself lost- was resting up. 

"I miss her," Arthur mumbles after a moment, turning to walk towards ( _Excalibur?... that sound-_

"Bessie or Ceto?" Hosea jokes, chuckling a bit at the end of his sentence and Arthur snorts in amusement, "But yes, I do miss her...everyday,"

"Yeah, and Bessie too," Arthur cackled.

 _That_ drags a full laugh out of Hosea, who was taken by surprise, spurring Arthur into joining in on the laughter until his stomach started to ache from the tension. "You are a rotten man, Arthur Morgan," Hosea muses after a moment, dramatically wiping a fake tear out of his eyes. Arthur wheezed for a moment, drawing closer to ( _again...Excalibur? sounds...good enough,)_ Excalibur and pausing.

"Excalibur?" Arthur calls, a few horses raise their heads at the sudden noise, including his Ardennes, and it dutifully comes in trot towards him. Arthur grins to himself, "Excalibur it is, a rough name for a rough beast," He chuckles slightly, mood brightening as Excalibur knocks his head against the saddle in Arthur's arms, "You gonna kick me again, boy?" Arthur whispers, and Excalibur exhales, his lips smacking in an almost amused sense.

"Do you want me to distract him while you're-" Hosea widely motions towards Excaliburs back, and Arthur sets down the saddle by the hitching post before stopping to survey the damage on Excalibur's back. There are the scars he'd seen before, and the matted fur, and the matted mane. There's also his tail, it looks like it had been braided at some point, maybe even twisted into dreadlocks but at this point, the swishing tail looks more like a mess of dirty, tangled and awkwardly trimmed hair. It's a painful sight, one that Arthur is determined to change, he skims a finger over Excalibur's neck, and the gelding looks back at Arthur curiously.

"I'll go grab some treats and whatever tools I find, you keep him sated," Arthur answers, and Hosea nods, extending a hand to the horse, the other coming to gently rest on the gelding's head. Arthur turns, satisfied that Excalibur won't attack Hosea, and heads straight to Pearson, seeing as he sets up the camp and knows most of the whereabouts of things. Pearson looks up from the pork loin he seems to be rubbing thyme and oregano on, he seems stricken for a moment, and Arthur realizes this is probably the first time they'd spoken in around two weeks now, and the first time after the whole...debacle with the leg.

"Arthur!" Pearson squeals, too loud to be calm like he probably intended, and Arthur winces. He should have expected nervous conversations, awkward too, but he had somehow forgotten that the men and women around camp are not, in fact, Dutch, Hosea, Grimshaw nor John, and they don't know how to approach him. At least Charles and Javier had calmly approached it, he knows Tilly almost talked to him but he shooed her away in his three-day-long depressed tantrum. Pearson drops the knife in his hands, wiping the oil and thyme mixture on his apron, and smiles nervously, "I...uh, I... Sorry to hear about the leg!"

Yep, awkward and nervous.

"Thanks, Simon," Arthur grumbles, and Pearson nervously chuckles, "You know where our horse kit is?" he asks, disregarding the way Pearson seems to fixate on his leg, which is hidden under his pants. He jumps at the sound of his voice and sheepishly looks around, and Arthur is sure he hadn't heard a word he'd said "Horse kit? Pearson?" Arthur repeats and Pearson nods, recognition flashing in his eyes.

"Ah, yes! Mister Duffy took it!" He answers, finally and Arthur nods, "I, uh, I...lunch will be ready soon!" 

It's still 1 pm, but Arthur doesn't mention it, instead opting to exit the awkward conversation, leaving with uneven footsteps as he scans the camp for Kieran. He should've expected that seeing as Kieran takes care of the horses exclusively now, but it had escaped his mind. Just as Kieran appears, black coat that doesn't suit the Lemoyne weather sticking out against the red ground of the peer, he hears his name called.

Or rather, his nickname.

"Hey! cowpoke!" 

He groans internally, and Charles looks up from his place under the tree, just as expecting as Arthur is. Even though Micah had put on a 'friendly' facade (honestly, it struck Arthur as ingenuine, which he didn't doubt it was, and creepy), after the whole Strawberry massacre thing, he'd been slowly dropping it. As he turns around, Arthur readies himself for a fight. Hosea's words echo inside his mind,  _you don't need to prove yourself_ , but in this situation, Arthur reckons he does. 

"Micah Bell. my least favorite parasite," Arthur mumbles, voice low in disdain but Micah grins anyway, looking like a damn Cheshire cat.

"Aw don't be that way," he sneers, pushing Arthur's shoulder in some type of mix between fake friendliness and passive aggressive degradation, "How's the...uh, leg, or is that the wrong question?" 

"It's  _fine_ , thanks," He grits out, and Micah snorts in amusement.

"Lost your sense of humor along with your leg, have ya?" He snickered, and Arthur thinks, perhaps, Micah's face never looked so punchable. 

"You're a bastard, you know that?" Arthur spits, intending on leaving the conversation just as he had with Pearson, and he was going to be true on his intentions, but Micah (as he seems to do a lot) talks anyway.

"Aw, come on, just because you're a cripple now don't mean you gotta be a  _prude_ ," He jeered, and Arthur froze, body washing cold with dread and he could  _swear_ his throat had plummeted to his stomach. Flashes of many, many emotions run past him, from disgust to surprise to embarrassment and shame, till it finally rested on anger. The camp seems to quieten, everybody struck silent as the words that are silently agreed upon not to use get spoken.

"What did you call me?" Arthur whispers, turning the half step he had taken, staring back at Micah with all the hatred he can muster up at this point. Micah raises a shoulder, and Arthur can feel his own tensing.

"What? Prude?  _cripple?_ " He repeated and if it was physically possible, Arthur would have blown steam out of his ears by now, "Don't like it? You've got a gimpy leg, Morgan. If you have-"

"Don't you  _ever_ call me that again," He fumed, voice barely above a whisper, but threatening non-the-same. Micah raised an eyebrow, stupid mustache lifting as the damn bastard smiled unevenly,  _amused_ at the situation.

"Oh, don't let me pull your leg," He jokes, and Arthur doesn't restrain himself anymore, he's already long overdue a talk from Dutch, hell, he'll even take Hosea scolding him, but he won't let this stupid, half-witted shitty excuse of a human humiliate him anymore. So, without warning, Arthur grabs the lapels of Micah's shirt, shoving him to the ground harshly. He'd seen Charles once throw Micah a good two feet, and he feels satisfied when the blond bastard stumbles and falls a decent amount of distance. Arthur makes his way to where he's picking himself up, and Micah tries to throw a fist at him, failing when Arthur kicks his hand away with his wooden foot, and if anything, the yelp he lets out is worth a thousand scoldings. 

"You stupid son of a bitch," Arthur jested, as Micah cradles his wrist, "When I  _tell_ you not to do something, you goddamn listen to me!" He shouts the last bit, relishing the flinch from Micah as he stands undignified. He puffs his chest like a rooster, and Arthur can't help but do the same, ready to go fist to fist if they have to. Micah seems to size him up, stepping closer as a threat and  _as if_ Arthur would back down from him. He fought tougher men with worse disadvantages, and he hadn't lost any on his arms, at least not yet, and he can  _definitely_ knock the sack-of-shit out. 

Micah is the first to strike, fist colliding with Arthur's jaw and making his head snap sideways, "Fine, you say you're not a cripple? Then fight me," he challenges, and Arthur doesn't respond, instead, raising his own fists and throwing a punch to Micah's side. He grunts and Arthur doesn't wait for him to recover, slamming his fist into Micah's gut and when he bents, he grabs a fistful of his hair and bend his knee, pushing his face into his knee. 

"Stand up, why don't you?" Arthur shouts as Micah crumbles to the ground, "Come on, why don't you fucking knock me out, huh?" He asks, voice not lowering as he vents his anger, "Ain't I a cripple, huh?" He jeers, kicking Micah, wooden leg jerking upwards and straining against his calf, "Answer me you son of a bitch!" 

"Arthur!" John shouts, wrapping his arms around Arthur and pushing him away from Micah, Arthur pushes him off, staring angrily as Bill begrudgingly helps Micah to his feet, letting him go when his eyes catch Arthurs.

"He called me-" Arthur argues but John shakes his head.

"I know what the bastard called you, but he ain't worth killing, not yet," John convinced and Arthur sighs disappointedly, "Ah, shit, Dutch,"

"What on earth-" Dutch starts, voice booming as Arthur turns.

"He lost his goddamn mind!" Micah shrieks and Arthur turns back to him, anger reboiling in his gut as he points an accusing finger at the man, who, upon second glance, has a bloody nose. 

"You're the one who-"

"Both of you, shut up!" Dutch shouts and Arthur grumbles to silence, crossing his arms with a scowl. Dutch continues to walk closer, and John places a supportive hand on his shoulder, squeezing when Arthur looks at him. "What the hell happened?" he asks, voice exasperated but angry all at the same time. It's the same voice Arthur used to hear when he would antagonize John when they were younger, and John would retaliate by starting a fight.

"He's insane!" Micah growls, and Arthur turns to look at him unamusingly, "I was just talking to him, and he punches me!"

"You damn well know that ain't the truth," John snaps before Arthur could, although Arthur would have said it in less polite ways and not so many words. He would've just called him a fucking lier. 

"Charles, have you witnessed this entire thing?" Dutch asks, ignoring the venomous glares exchanged between the two outlaws. 

"Yes," Charles answers, standing up from under the tree, "Micah insulted Arthur about his leg, called him a cripple amongst other things," he explained simply, and Micah open his mouth to object, not getting a chance as Charles continues, "Arthur told him to quit it, but Micah didn't and Arthur lost his temper and well..." he gestured vaguely towards the scene in front of him.

"Dutch-" Micah tries, but Dutch shuts him down with a glare.

"We don't do that here, Micah," Dutch says, voice dangerously calm, eyes boring down on Micah, "What you did was unacceptable, I thought you'd learned your lesson?" 

"I didn't mean nothing by it!" Micah defends, and Dutch squints at him.

"Apologize and go help Kieran clean up the horse shit," Dutch commands, and Micah damn well near falls faint, spluttering at the request but shutting his mouth when Dutch raised an eyebrow.

"Fine, I'm  _sorry_ ," Micah resolves, and it does nothing to sooth Arthur's wounded pride. Micah glances at Dutch, who shakes his head, and Micah sighs, wiping at his bloody nose before trying again, "I'm sorry I called you a cripple, and insulted you, there," 

"Now go, I want to see the ground  _shining_ ," Dutch presses on the word, eyes daring Micah to oppose the notion, and Micah stomps away. Arthur watches him go, and John drops his hand from his shoulder as Dutch steps closer to Arthur, "You didn't have to break his nose," he says, no accusation behind his words and Arthur relaxes ever so slightly. 

"Says you," He jibs back and Dutch rolls his eyes, "I don't like being degraded, Dutch, he said I had a gimpy leg for Christ's sake," Arthur complains and Dutch nods along. They stand for a moment, Arthur watching the small crowd that had formed disperse, Charles returning to his tree, John sitting aimlessly on the table, Karen going back to her beer bottle. 

"I guess he deserved it,"

"Hell yeah, he did," Arthur is quick to reply, voice dripping with venom, and to his grating nerves, Dutch  _smiles_. "What?" he snaps and Dutch actually grins at him.

"Nothing, just- nothing," he shakes his head, leaving Arthur confused and irritated, "I reckon you can go on with your day now,"

"Should get back to Hosea and Excalibur," he agrees, following up with, "my horse, Excalibur," when Dutch frowns in confusion.

"Ahh, alright, King Arthur," He chuckles, and Arthur groans, remembering all of Sean's teases all at once, "go on, son, have a nice day," Dutch says after a moment, clapping Arthur's shoulders and heading back from where he came.

Right, horse kit, Kieran. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: rereads my own story because I don't know if I gave a breed to Pegasus before.
> 
> Me: keeps tabs open, doesn't read the chapters and writes a breed anyway in hopes that I had left Pegasus a mysterious horse.


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